ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


[Pfcge  3S 


DAVM)!'    RHK  CALLED.       'DAVID!    DAVID!    DAVID!'" 


SILENCE 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 
By  MARY  E.  WILKINS 
Author  of  "Jerome,  A  Poor 
Man"  "Madelon"  "Jane  Field" 

WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 


BOOKS  BY 
MARY   E.   WILKINS    FREEMAN 

THE  COPY-CAT  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 

Illu3trated.     Post  8vo. 
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Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
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JANE  FIELD.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo. 
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THE  LOVE  OF  PARSON  LORD.     Post  8vo. 
MADELON.     Post  Svo. 
A   NEW  ENGLAND   NUN.     Post  Svo. 
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THE  PORTION  OF  LABOR.    Illustrated.    Post  Svo. 
THE  SHOULDERS  OF  ATLAS. 

Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
SILENCE,  ETC.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
SIX  TREES.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
UNDERSTUDIES.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 
THE  WINNING   LADY  AND  OTHERS. 

Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 

THE  YATES  PRIDE.     Illustrated.     16mo. 
YOUNG  LUCRETIA.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo. 

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Copyright,  1898,  by  HARPKB  &  BROTHKM. 
Printed  in  the  United  St*te,s  of  America 


\    '      •   «•'   »  *J*I*  . 

%+&Afrj:rr.  -n^A 


CONTEXTS 


PAGB 

SILENCE 1 

THE  BUCKLEY  LADY ...     55 

EVELINA'S  GAKDKN Ill 

A    Xi;W    EiN  GLAND    PltOPIIET 184 

THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  Doon 225 

LYDIA  KERSEY.  OF  EAST  HKIDGKTVATER  .  205 


ILLUSTKATICOTS 


"'DAVID!'  SHE  CALLED.      'DAVID!  DAVID! 

DAVID!" Frontispiece 

AT  ENSIGN    SHELDON '8   HOUSE    THE    MORNING 

AFTER  THE  MASSACRE Facing  p.     30 

"  SHE  HEARD  RAPID  FOOTSTEPS  "     ....       "       132 
"'THE  LORD  MAKE  ME  WORTHY  OP  THEE, 

EVELINA!'".  "       180 


SILEKCE 


AT  dusk  Silence  went  down  the  Deerfield 
street  to  Ensign  John  Sheldon's  house.  She 
wore  her  red  blanket  over  her  head,  pinned 
closely  under  her  chin,  and  her  white  profile 
showed  whiter  between  the  scarlet  folds.  She 
had  been  spinning  all  day,  and  shreds  of  wool 
still  clung  to  her  indigo  petticoat ;  now  and  then 
one  floated  off  on  the  north  wind.  It  was  bit 
ter  cold,  and  the  snow  was  four  feet  deep. 
Silence's  breath  went  before  her  in  a  cloud  ;  the 
snow  creaked  under  her  feet.  All  over  the  vil 
lage  the  crust  was  so  firm  that  men  could  walk 
upon  it.  The  houses  were  half  sunken  in  sharp, 
rigid  drifts  of  snow  ;  their  roofs  were  laden  with 
it ;  icicles  hung  from  the  eaves.  All  the  elms 
were  white  with  snow  frozen  to  them  so  strong 
ly  that  it  was  not  shaken  off  when  they  were 
lashed  by  the  fierce  wind. 

There  was  an  odor  of  boiling  meal  in  the  air ; 
the  housewives  were  preparing  supper.  Silence 
had  eaten  hers  ;  she  and  her  aunt,  Widow  Eunice 
A  1 


"SILENCE 

Bishop,  supped  early.  She  had  not  far  to  go  to 
Ensign  Sheldon's.  She  was  nearly  there  when 
she  heard  quick  footsteps  on  the  creaking  snow 
behind  her.  Her  heart  beat  quickly,  but  she 
did  not  look  around.  "  Silence,"  said  a  voice. 
Then  she  paused,  and  waited,  with  her  eyes  cast 
down  and  her  mouth  grave,  until  David  Walcott 
reached  her.  "  What  do  you  out  this  cold  night, 
sweetheart  ?"  he  said. 

"  I  am  going  down  to  Goodwife  Sheldon's/' 
replied  Silence.  Then  suddenly  she  cried  out, 
wildly  :  "  Oh,  David,  what  is  that  on  your  cloak  ? 
What  is  it  ?" 

David  looked  curiously  at  his  cloak.  "I  see 
naught  on  my  cloak  save  old  weather  stains," 
said  he.  "  What  mean  you,  Silence  ?" 

Silence  quieted  down  suddenly.  "It  is  gone 
now,"  said  she,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

"What  did  you  see,  Silence  ?" 

Silence  turned  towards  him;  her  face  quivered 

convulsively.     "  I  saw  a  blotch  of  blood,"  she 

d;ried.     "  I  have  been  seeing  them  everywhere  all 

Vday.     I  have  seen  them  on  the  snow  as  I  came 

along." 

David  Walcott  looked  down  at  her  in  a  be 
wildered  way.  He  carried  his  musket  over  his 
shoulder,  and  was  shrugged  up  in  his  cloak  ;  his 
heavy,  flaxen  mustache  was  stiff  and  white  with 
frost.  He  had  just  been  relieved  from  his  post 
as  sentry,  and  it  was  no  child's  play  to  patrol 


SILENCE 

Deerfield  village  on  a  day  like  that,  nor  had  it 
been  for  many  previous  days.  The  weather  had 
been  so  severe  that  even  the  French  and  Indians, 
lurking  like  hungry  wolves  in  the  neighborhood, 
had  hesitated  to  descend  upon  the  town,  and  had 
stayed  in  camp. 

"  What  mean  you,  Silence  ?"  he  said. 

"What  I  say/' returned  Silence,  in  a  strained 
voice.  "  I  have  seen  blotches  of  blood  every 
where  all  day.  The  enemy  will  be  upon  us." 

David  laughed  loudly,  and  Silence  caught  his 
arm.  "  Don't  laugh  so  loud/'  she  whispered. 
Then  David  laughed  again.  "  You  be  all  over 
wrought,  sweetheart/'  said  he.  "I  have  kept 
guard  all  the  afternoon  by  the  northern  palisades, 
and  I  have  seen  not  so  much  as  a  red  fox  on  the 
meadow.  I  tell  thee  the  French  and  Indians 
have  gone  back  to  Canada.  There  is  no  more 
need  of  fear." 

"I  have  started  all  day  and  all  last  night  at 
the  sound  of  warwhoops/'  said  Silence. 

"  Thy  head  is  nigh  turned  with  these  troublous 
times,  poor  lass.  We  must  cross  the  road  now 
to  Ensign  Sheldon's  house.  Come  quickly,  or 
you  will  perish  in  this  cold." 

"Nay,  my  head  is  not  turned/'  said  Silence, 
as  they  hurried  on  over  the  crust ;  "  the  enemy 
be  hiding  in  the  forests  beyond  the  meadows. 
David,  they  be  not  gone." 

"And  I  tell  thee  they  be  gone,  sweetheart. 
3 


SILENCE 

Think  yon  not  we  should  have  seen  their  camp 
smoke  had  they  been  there  ?  And  we  have  had 
trusty  scouts  out.  Come  in,  and  my  aunt,  Han 
nah  Sheldon,  shall  talk  thee  out  of  this  folly." 

The  front  windows  of  John  Sheldon's  house 
were  all  flickering  red  from  the  hearth  fire. 
David  flung  open  the  door,  and  they  entered. 
There  was  such  a  goodly  blaze  from  the  great 
logs  in  the  wide  fireplace  that  even  the  shadows 
in  the  remote  corners  of  the  large  keeping-room 
were  dusky  red,  and  the  faces  of  all  the  people  in 
the  room  had  a  clear  red  glow  upon  them. 

Good  wife  Hannah  Sheldon  stood  before  the 
fire,  stirring  some  porridge  in  a  great  pot  that 
hung  on  the  crane;  some  fair -haired  children 
sat  around  a  basket  shelling  corn,  a  slight  young 
girl  in  a  snuff -yellow  gown  was  spinning,  and  an 
old  woman  in  a  quilted  hood  crouched  in  a  cor 
ner  of  the  fireplace,  holding  out  her  lean  hands 
to  the  heat. 

Goodwife  Sheldon  turned  around  when  the 
door  opened.  "  Good  -  day,  Mistress  Silence 
Hoit,"  she  called  out,  and  her  voice  was  sweet, 
but  deep  like  a  man's.  "  Draw  near  to  the  fire, 
for  in  truth  you  must  be  near  perishing  with  the 
cold/'  / 

"  There'll  be  nre  enough  ere  morning,  I  trow/ 
to  warm  the  whole  township,"  said  the  old  woman 
in  the  corner.      Her  small  black  eyes  gleamed  /J 
sharply  out  of  the  gloom  of  her  great  hood ;  her 
4 


SILENCE 

yellow  face  was  all  drawn  and  puckered  towards 
the  centre  of  her  shrewdly  leering  mouth. 

"Now  you  hush  your  croaking,  Goody  Crane," 
cried  Hannah  Sheldon.  "  Draw  the  stool  near  to 
the  fire  for  Silence,  David.  I  cannot  stop  stir 
ring,  or  the  porridge  will  burn.  How  fares  your 
aunt  this  cold  weather,  Silence  ?" 

"  Well,  except  for  her  rheumatism,"  replied 
Silence.  She  sat  down  on  the  stool  that  David 
placed  for  her,  and  slipped  her  blanket  back  from 
her  head.  Her  beautiful  face,  full  of  a  grave  and 
delicate  stateliness,  drooped  towards  the  fire,  her 
smooth  fair  hair  was  folded  in  clear  curves  like 
the  leaves  of  a  lily  around  her  ears,  and  she  wore 
a  high,  transparent,  tortoise-shell  comb  like  a 
coronet  in  the  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head. 

David  Walcott  had  pulled  off  his  cap  and  cloak, 
and  stood  looking  down  at  her.  "Silence  is  all 
overwrought  by  this  talk  of  Indians,"  he  remark 
ed,  presently,  and  a  blush  came  over  his  weather- 
beaten  blond  face  at  the  tenderness  in  his  own 
tone. 

"  The  Indians  have  gone  back  to  Canada," 
said  Goodwife  Sheldon,  in  a  magisterial  voice. 
She  stirred  the  porridge  faster ;  it  was  steaming 
fiercely. 

"  So  I  tell  her,"  said  David. 

Silence  looked  up  in  Hannah  Sheldon's  sober, 
masterly  face.  "  Goodwife,  may  I  have  a  word  in 
private  with  you  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  half -whisper. 
5 


SILENCE 

"As  soon  as  I  take  the  porridge  off,"  replied 
Goodwife  Sheldon. 

God  grant  it  be  not  the  last  time  she  takes 
porridge  off  !"  said  the  old  woman. 

Hannah  Sheldon  laughed.  "  Here  be  Goody 
Crane  in  a  sorry  mind  to-night/'  said  she.  "Wait 
till  she  have  a  sup  of  this  good  porridge,  and  I 
trow  she'll  pack  off  the  Indians  to  Canada  in  a 
half-hour  I" 

Hannah  began  dipping  out  the  porridge.  When 
she  had  placed  generous  dishes  of  it  on  the  table 
and  bidden  everybody  draw  up,  she  motioned 
to  Silence.  "  Now,  Mistress  Silence,"  said  she, 
"come  into  the  bedroom  if  you.  would  have  a 
word  with  me." 

Silence  followed  her  into  the  little  north  room 
opening  out  of  the  keeping-room,  where  En 
sign  John  Sheldon  and  his  wife  Hannah  had 
slept  for  many  years.  It  was  icy  cold,  and  the 
thick  fur  of  frost  on  the  little  window-panes 
sent  out  sparkles  in  the  candle-light.  The  two 
women  stood  beside  the  great  chintz  draped  and 
canopied  bed,  Hannah  holding  the  flaring  can 
dle.  "  Now,  what  is  it  ?"  said  she. 

"  Oh,  Goodwife  Sheldon  !"  said  Silence.  Her 
face  remained  quite  still,  but  it  was  as  if  one 
could  see  her  soul  fluttering  beneath  it. 

"You  be  all  overwrought,  as  David  saith," 
cried  Goodwife  Sheldon,  and  her  voice  had  a 
motherly  harshness  in  it.  Silence  had  no  mother, 


SILENCE 

and  her  lover,  David  Walcott,  had  none.  Hannah 
was  his  aunt,  and  loved  him  like  her  son,  so 
she  felt  towards  Silence  as  towards  her  son's 
betrothed. 

"  In  truth  I  know  not  what  it  is,"  said  Silence, 
in  a  kind  of  reserved  terror,  "  but  there  has  been 
all  day  a  great  heaviness  of  spirit  upon  me,  and 
last  night  I  dreamed.  All  day  I  have  fancied 
I  saw  blood  here  and  there.  Sometimes,  when 
I  have  looked  out  of  the  window,  the  whole  snow 
hath  suddenly  glared  with  red.  Goodwife  Shel 
don,  think  you  the  Indians  and  the  French  have 
in  truth  gone  back  to  Canada  ?" 

Goodwife  Sheldon  hesitated  a  moment,  then 
she  spoke  up  cheerily.  "  In  truth  have  they !" 
cried  she.  "John  said  but  this  noon  that  naught 
of  them  had  been  seen  for  some  time." 

"  So  David  said,"  returned  Silence ;  "  but  this 
heaviness  will  not  be  driven  away.  You  know 
how  Parson  Williams  hath  spoken  in  warning  in 
the  pulpit  and  elsewhere,  and_besought  us  to 
be  vigilant.  He  holdeth  that  the  savages  be  not 
gone." 

Hannah  Sheldon  smiled.  "Parson  Williams  < 
is  a  godly  man,  but  prone  ever  to  look  upon  the  / 
dark  side,"  said  she. 

"  If  the  Indians  should  come  to-night — "  said 
Silence. 

"  I  tell  ye  they  will  not  come,  child.     I  shall 
lay  me  down  in  that  bed  a-trusting  in  the  Lord, 
7 


SILENCE 

d  having  no  fear  against  the  time  I  shall  arise 
from  it." 

"  If  the  Indians  should  come —  Good  wife 
Sheldon,  be  not  angered ;  hear  me.  If  they 
should  come,  I  pray  you  keep  David  here  to  de 
fend  you  in  this  house,  and  let  him  not  out  to 
seek  me.  You  know  well  that  our  house  is 
musket-proof  as  well  as  this,  and  it  has  long  been 
agreed  that  they  who  live  nearest,  whose  houses 
have  not  thick  walls,  shall  come  to  ours  and  help 
us  make  defence.  I  pray  you  let  not  David  out 
of  the  house  to  seek  me,  should  there  be  a  sur 
prise  to-night.  I  pray  you  give  me  your  prom 
ise  for  this,  Goodwife  Sheldon." 

Hannah  Sheldon  laughed.  "In  truth  will  I 
give  thee  the  promise,  if  it  makes  thee  easier, 
child,"  said  she.  "At  the  very  first  war-screech 
will  I  tie  David  in  the  chimney-corner  with  my 
apron -string,  unless  you  lend  me  yours.  But 
there  will  be  no  war-screech  to-night,  nor  to- 
rn^rrow  night,  nor  the  night  after  that.  The 
"Lord  will  preserve  His  people  that  trust  in  Him. 
To-day  have  I  set  a  web  of  linen  in  the  loom, 
and  I  have  candles  ready  to  dip  to-morrow,  and 
the  day  after  that  I  have  a  quilting.  I  look  not 
for  Indians.  If  they  come  I  will  set  them  to 
work.  Fear  not  for  David,  sweetheart.  In  truth 
you  should  have  a  bolder  heart,  an'  you  look  to 
be  a  soldier's  wife  some  day." 

"  I  would  I  had  never  been  aught  to  him,  that 
8 


SILENCE 

he  might  not  be  put  in  jeopardy  to  defend  me  !" 
said  Silence,  and  her  words  seemed  visible  in  a 
white  cloud  at  her  mouth. 

"  We  must  not  stay  here  in  the  cold,"  said 
Goodwife  Sheldon.  "  Out  with  ye,  Silence,  and 
have  a  sup  of  hot  porridge,  and  then  David  shall 
see  ye  home." 

Silence  sipped  a  cup  of  the  hot  porridge  obe 
diently,  then  she  pinned  her  red  blanket  over 
her  head.  Hannah  Sheldon  assisted  her,  bring 
ing  it  warmly  over  her  face.  "'Tis  bitter  cold," 
she  said.  "Now  have  no  more  fear,  Mistress 
Silence;  the  Indians  will  not  come  to-night; 
but  do  you  come  over  to-morrow,  and  keep  me 
company  while  I  dip  the  candles." 

"There'll  be  company  enough^— there'll  be  a 
whole  houseful,"  muttered  the/ml  woman  in  the 
corner ;  but  nobody  heeded  bier.  She  was  a  lone 
ly  and  wretched  old  creature  whom  people  shel 
tered  from  pity,  although  she  was  somewhat 
feared  and  held  in  ill  repute.  There  were  ru 
mors  that  she  was  well  versed  in  all  the  dark 
of  witchcraft,  and  held  commerce  with  unlawful 
beings.  The  children  of  Deerfield  village  looked 
askance  at  her,  and  clung  to  their  mothers  if 
they  met  her  on  the  street,  for  they  whispered 
among  themselves  that  old  Goody  Crane  rode 
through  the  air  on  a  broom  in  the  night-time. 

Silence  and  David  passed  out  into  the  keen 
night.    "If  you  meet  my  good-man,  hasten  him 
9 


SILENCE 

home,  for  the  porridge  is  cooling,"  Hannah  Shel 
don  called  after  them. 

They  met  not  a  soul  on  Deerfield  street, 
and  parted  at  Silence's  door.  David  would 
have  entered  had  she  bidden  him,  but  she  said 
peremptorily  that  she  had  a  hard  task  of  spin 
ning  that  evening,  and  then  she  wished  him 
good-night,  and  without  a  kiss,  for  Silence  Hoit 
was  chary  of  caresses.  But  to-night  she  called 
him  back  ere  he  was  fairly  in  the  street.  ' '  Da 
vid,"  she  called,  and  he  ran  back. 

"What  is  it,  Silence  ?"  he  asked. 

She  put  back  her  blanket,  threw  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  clung  to  him  trembling. 

"Why,  sweetheart,"  he  whispered,  "what  has 
come  over  thee  ?" 

"You  know — this  house  is  made  like — a  fort," 
she  said,  bringing  out  her  words  in  gasps,  "  and 
— there  are  muskets,  and  —  powder  stored  in  it, 
and — Captain  Moulton,  and  his  sons,  and — John 
Carson  will  come,  and  make — a  stand  in  it.  I 
have— no  fear  should— the  Indians  come.  .Re 
member  that  I  have  no  fear,  and  shall  be  safe 
here,  David." 

David  laughed,  and  patted  her  clinging  shoul 
ders.  "  Yes,  I  will  remember,  Silence,"  he  said  ; 
"but  the  Indians  will  not  come." 

"  Remember  that  I  am  safe  here,  and  have  no 
fear,"  she  repeated.  Then  she  kissed  him  of 
her  own  accord,  as  if  she  had  been  his  wife,  and 
10 


SILENCE 

entered  the   house,  and  he   went   away,  won 
dering. 

Silence's  annt,  Widow  Eunice  Bishop,  did  not 
look  up  when  the  door  opened ;  she  was  knit 
ting  by  the  fire,  sitting  erect  with  her  mouth 
pursed.  She  had  a  hostile  expression,  as  if  she 
were  listening  to  some  opposite  argument.  Si 
lence  hung  her  blanket  on  a  peg ;  she  stood 
irresolute  a  minute,  then  she  breathed  on  the 
1'roisty  window  and  cleared  a  space  through 
which  she  could  look  out.  Her  aunt  gave  a 
quick,  fierce  glance  at  her,  then  she  tossed  back 
her  head  and  knitted.  Silence  stood  staring  out 
of  the  little  peep-hole  in  the  frosty  pane.  Her 
aunt  glanced  at  her  again,  then  she  spoke. 

"  I  should  think  if  you  had  been  out  gossip 
ing  and  gadding  for  two  hours,  you  had  better 
get  yourself  at  some  work  now,"  she  said,  "  un 
less  your  heart  be  set  on  idling.  A  pretty  house 
wife  you'll  make !" 

"Come  here  quick,  quick  !"  Silence  cried  out. 

Her  aunt  started,  but  she  would  not  get  up; 
she  knitted,  scowling.  "  I  cannot  afford  to  idle 
if  other  folk  can,"  said  she.  "  I  have  no  desire 
to  keep  running  to  windows  and  standing  there 
gaping,  as  you  have  done  all  this  day." 

"Oh,  aunt,  I  pray  you  to  come,"  said  Silence, 
and  she  turned  her  white  face  over  her  shoulder 
towards  her  aunt ;  "  there  is  somewhat  wrong 
surely." 

11 


SILENCE 

Widow  Bishop  got  up,  still  scowling,  and  went 
over  to  the  window.  Silence  stood  aside  and 
pointed  to  the  little  clear  circle  in  the  midst  of 
the  frost.  "  Over  there  to  the  north,"  she  said, 
in  a  quick,  low  voice. 

Her  aunt  adjusted  her  horn  spectacles  and 
her  head  stiffly.     "  I  see  naught/'  said  she. 
red  glare  in  the  north  \" 

"  A  red  glare  in  the  north  !  Be  ye  out  of  your 
mind,  wench  !  There  be  no  red  glare  in  the 
north.  Everything  be  quiet  in  the  town.  Get 
ye  away  from  the  window  and  to  your  work.  I 
have  no  more  patience  with  such  doings.  Here- 
have  I  left  my  knitting  for  nothing,  and  I  just 
about  setting  the  heel.  You'd  best  keep  to  your 
spinning  instead  of  spying  out  of  the  window  at 
your  own  nightmares,  and  gadding  about  the 
town  after  David  Walcott.  Pretty  doings  for  a 
modest  maid,  I  call  it,  following  after  young 
men  in  this  fashion  !" 

Silence  turned  on  her  aunt,  and  her  blue  eyes 
gleamed  dark  ;  she  held  up  her  head  like  a  queen. 
"I  follow  not  after  young  men/'  she  said. 

"  Heard  I  not  David  Walcott's  voice  at  the 
door  ?  Went  you  not  to  Goodwife  Sheldon's, 
where  he  lives  ?  Was  it  not  his  voice — hey  ?" 

"  Yes,  'twas,  an'  I  had  a  right  to  go  there  an  I 
chose,  an'  'twas  naught  unmaidenly/'  said  Si 
lence. 

"  'Twas  unmaidenly  in  my  day,"  retorted  her 
12 


SILENCE 

aunt;  "perhaps  'tis  different  now/'  She  had 
returned  to  her  seat,  and  was  clashing  her  knit 
ting-needles  like  two  swords  in  a  duel. 

Silence  pulled  a  spinning-wheel  before  the 
fire  and  fell  to  work.  The  wheel  turned  so  rap 
idly  that  the  spokes  were  a  revolving  shadow ; 
there  was  a  sound  as  if  a  bee  had  entered  the 
room. 

"I  stayed  at  home,  and  your  uncle  did  the 
courting/'  Widow  Eunice  Bishop  continued,  in  a 
voice  that  demanded  response. 

But  Silence  made  none.  She  went  on  spinning. 
Her  aunt  eyed  her  maliciously.  "I  never  went 
after  nightfall  to  his  house  that  he  might  see  me 
home,"  said  she.  "  I  trow  my  mother  would 
have  locked  me  up  in  the  garret,  and  kept  me  on 
meal  and  water  for  a  week,  had  I  done  aught  so, 
bold." 

Silence  spun  on.  Her  aunt  threw  her  head 
back,  and  knitted,,  jerking  out  her  elbows. 
Neither  of  them  spoke  again  until  the  clock 
struck  nine.  Then  Widow  Bishop  wound  her 
ball  of  yarn  closer,  and  stuck  in  the  knitting- 
needles,  and  rose.  "'Tis  time  to  put  out  the 
candle, "  she  said,  "and  /have  done  a  good  day's  c- 
work,  and  feel  need  of  rest.  They  that  hav-e" 
idled  cannot  make  it  up  by  wasting  tallow."  She 
threw  open  the  door  that  led  to  her  bedroom, 
and  a  blast  of  icy  confined  air  rushed  in.  She 
untied  the  black  cap  that  framed  her  nervous 
13 


SILENCE 

face  austerely,  and  her  gray  head,  with  its  tight 
rosette  of  hair  on  the  crown,  appeared.  Silence 
set  her  spinning-wheel  back,  and  raked  the  ashes 
over  the  hearth  fire.  Then  she  took  the  candle 
and  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  own  chamber.  Her 
aunt  was  already  in  bed,  her  pale,  white-frilled 
face  sunk  in  the  icy  feather  pillow ;  but  she  did 
not  bid  her  good-night :  not  on  account  of  her 
auger;  there  was  seldom  any  such  formal  cour 
tesy  exchanged  between  the  women.  Silence's 
chamber  had  one  side  sloping  with  the  slope  of 
the  roof,  and  in  it  were  two  dormer-windows 
looking  towards  the  north.  She  set  her  candle 
on  the  table,  breathed  on  one  of  these  windows, 
as  she  had  on  the  one  down- stairs,  and  looked 
out.  She  stood  there  several  minutes,  then  she 
turned  away,  shaking  her  head.  The  room  was 
very  cold.  She  let  down  her  smooth  fair  hair, 
and  her  fingers  began  to  redden  ;  she  took  off 
her  kerchief  ;  then  she  stopped,  and  looked  hes 
itatingly  at  her  bed,  with  its  blue  curtains.  She 
set  her  mouth  hard,  and  put  on  her  kerchief. 
Then  she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  and 
waited.  After  a  while  she  pulled  a  quilt  from 
the  bed  and  wrapped  it  around  her.  Still  she  did 
not  shiver.  She  had  blown  out  the  candle,  and 
the  room  was  very  dark.  All  her  nerves  seemed 
screwed  tight  like  fiddle-strings,  and  her  thoughts 
beat  upon  them  and  made  terrific  waves  of  sound 
in  her  ears.  She  saw  sparks  and  flashes  like  dia- 
U 


SILENCE 

mond  fire  in  the  darkness.     She  had  her  hands 
clinched  tight,  but  she  did  not  feel  her  hands  nor 
her  feet — she  did  not  feel  her  whole  body.     She 
sat  so  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.     When 
the  clock  down  in  the  keeping-room  struck  the 
hours,  the  peals  shocked  her  back  for  a  minute 
to  her  old  sense  of  herself  ;  then  she  lost  it  again. 
Just  after  the  clock  struck  two,  while  the  silvery 
reverberation  of  the  bell  tone  was  still  in  her  ears, 
and  she  was  breathing  a  little  freer,  9,  great  rosy 
glow  suffused  the  frosty  windows/   A  horrible; 
discord  of  sound  arose  without.     Above  every- ; 
thing  else  came  something  like  a  peal  of  laughter  ' 
from  wild  beasts  or  fiends. 

Silence  arose  and  went  down-stairs.  Her  aunt 
rushed  out  of  her  bedroom,  shrieking,  and  caught 
hold  of  her.  "Oh,  Silence,  what  is  it,  what  is 
it  ?"  she  cried. 

"  Get  away  till  I  light  a  candle,"  said  Silence. 
She  fairly  pushed  her  aunt  off,  shovelled  the 
ashes  from  the  coals  in  the  fireplace,  and  lighted 
a  candle.  Then  she  threw  some  wood  on  the 
smouldering  fire.  Her  aunt  was  running  around 
the  room  screaming.  There  came  a  great  pound 
on  the  door. 

"  It's  the  Indians  !  it's  the  Indians  !  don't  let 
'em  in  !"  shrieked  her  aunt.  ''Don't  let  them 
in  !  don't  let  them  !"  She  placed  her  lean 
shoulder  in  her  white  bed-gown  against  the 
door.  "Go  away!  go  away!"  she  yelled. 
15 


SILENCE 

"  You  can't  come  in  !  *  0  Lord  Almighty,  save 
us!" 

"  You  stand  off,"  said  Silence.  She  took  hold 
of  her  aunt's  shoulders.  "  Be  quiet/'  she  com 
manded.  Then  she  called  out,  in  a  firm  voice, 
"  Who  is  there  ?" 

At  the  shout  in  response  she  drew  the  great 
iron  bolts  quickly  and  flung  open  the  heavy  nail- 
studded  door.  There  was  a  press  of  frantic,  white- 
faced  people  into  the  room  ;  then  the  door  was 
slammed  to  and  the  bolts  shot.  It  was  very  still 
in  the  room,  except  for  the  shuffling  rush  of  the 
men's  feet,  and  now  and  then  a  stern,  gasping  or 
der.  The  children  did  not  cry ;  all  the  noise 
was  without.  The  house  might  have  stood  in 
the  midst  of  jsome  awful  wilderness  peopled  with 
fiendish  beafcts,  from  the  noise  without.  The 
cries  seemed  actually  in  the  room.  The  children's 
eyes  glared  white  over  their  mothers'  shoulders. 

The  men  hurriedly  strengthened  the  window- 
shutters  with  props  of  logs,  and  fitted  the  mus 
kets  into  the  loop-holes.     Suddenly  there  was  a 
great  crash  at  the  door,  and  a  wilder  yell  outside. 
The  muskets  opened  fire,  and  some  of  the  women 
rushed  to  the  door  and  pressed  fiercely  against  it 
with  their  delicate  shoulders,  their  white,  desper-     > 
ate  faces  turning  back  dumbly,  like  a  spiritual/ 
phalanx  of  defence.     Silence  and  her  aunt  were 
among  them. 

Suddenly  Widow  Eunice  Bishop,  at  a  fresh  on- 
16 


SILENCE 

slanght  upon  the  door,  pnd  a  fiercer  yell,  lifted 
up  her  voice  and  shrieked  back  in  a  rage  as  mad 
as  theirs.     Her  speech,  too,  was  almost  inarticu-^7 
late,  and  the  sense  of  it  lost  in  a  savage  frenzy ; 
her  tongue  stuttered  over  abusive  epithets ;  but~l 
for  a  second  she  prevailed  over  the  terrible  chorus 
without.     It  was  like  the  solo  of  a  fury.     Then  J 
louder  yells  drowned  her  out ;  the  muskets  crack 
ed  faster ;  the  men  rammed  in  the  charges ;  the 
savages  fell  back  somewhat ;  the  blows  on  the 
door  ceased. 

Silence  ran  up  the  stairs  to  her  chamber,  and 
peeped  cautiously  out  of  a  little  dormer-window. 
Deerfield  village  was  roaring  with  flames,  the  sky 
and  snow  were  red,  and  leaping  through  the 
glare  came  the  painted  savages,  a  savage  white 
face  and  the  waving  sword  of  a  French  officer  in 
their  midst.  The  awful  warwhoops  and  the 
death-cries  of  her  friends  and  neighbors  sounded 
in  her  ears.  She  saw,  close  under  her  window, 
the  dark  sweep  of  the  tomahawk,  the  quick  glance 
of  the  scalping-knife,  and  the  red  starting  of  caps 
of  blood.  She  saw  infants  dashed  through  the 
air,  and  the  backward-straining  forms  of  shriek 
ing  women  dragged  down  the  street ;  but  she 
saw  not  David  Walcott  anywhere. 

She  eyed  in  an  agony  some  dark  bodies  lying 

like  logs  in  the  snow.    A  wild  impulse  seized  her 

to  run  out,  turn  their  dead  faces,  and  see  that 

none  of  them  was  her  lover's.     Her  room  was 

B  17 


SILENCE 

full  of  red  light ;  everything  in  it  showed  dis 
tinctly.  The  roof  of  the  next  house  crashed  in, 
and  the  sparks  and  cinders  shot  up  like  a  volcano. 
There  was  a  great  outcry  of  terror  from  below, 
and  Silence  hurried  down.  The  Indians  were 
trying  to  fire  the  house  from  the  west  side. 
They  had  piled  a  bank  of  brush  against  it,  and 
the  men  had  hacked  new  loop-holes  and  were 
beating  them  back. 

John  Carson's  wife  clutched  Silence  as  she  en 
tered  the  keeping-room.  "They  are  trying  to 
set  the  house  on  fire,"  she  gasped,  "and — the 
bullets  are  giving  out  I"  The  woman  held  a  little 
child  hugged  close  to  her  breast ;  she  strained 
him  closer.  "They  sh;ill  not  have  him,  any 
way,"  she  said.  Her  month  looked  white  and 
stiff. 

"Put  him  down  and  help,  then,"  said  Silence. 
She  began  pulling  the  pewter  plates  off  the  dresser. 

"What  be  you  doing  with  my  pewter  plates  ?" 
screamed  her  aunt  at  her  elbow. 

Silence  said  nothing.  She  went  on  piling  the 
plates  under  her  arm. 

"Think  you  I  will  have  the  pewter  plates  I 
have  had  ever  since  I  was  wed,  melted  to  make 
bullets  for  those  limbs  of  Satan  ?" 

Silence    carried  the  plates  to  the  fire ;    the 

women  piled  on  wood  and  made  it  hotter.    John 

Carson's  wife  laid  her  baby  on   the  settle    and 

helped,  and  Widow  Bishop  brought  out  her  pew- 

18 


SILENCE 

ter  spoons,  and  her  silver  cream-jug  when  the 
pewter  ran  low,  and  finally  her  dead  husband's 
knee- buckles  from  the  cedar  chest.  All  the  pew 
ter  and  silver  in  Widow  Eunice  Bishop's  house 
were  melted  down  that  night.  The  women  worked 
with  desperate  zeal  to  supply  the  men  with  bul 
lets,  and  just  before  the  ammunition  failed,  the 
Indians  left  Deerfield  village,  with  their  captives 
in  their  train. 

The  men  had  stopped  firing  at  last.  Every 
thing  was  quiet  outside,  except  for  the  flurry  of 
musket-shots  down  on  the  meadow,  where  the 
skirmish  was  going  on  between  the  Hatfield  men 
and  the  retreating  French  and  Indians.  The 
dawn  was  breaking,  but  not  a  shutter  had  been 
stirred  in  the  Bishop  house  ;  the  inmates  were 
clustered  together,  their  ears  straining  for  another 
outburst  of  slaughter. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  strange  crackling  sound 
overhead  ;  a  puff  of  hot  smoke  came  into  the 
room  from  the  stairway.  The  roof  had  caught 
fire  from  the  shower  of  sparks,  and  the  stanch 
house  that  had  withstood  all  the  fury  of  the  sav 
ages  was  going  the  way  of  its  neighbors. 

The  men  rushed  up  the  stair,  and  fell  back. 
"We  can't  save  it !"  Captain  Isaac  Moulton  said, 
hoarsely.  He  was  an  old  man,  and  his  white  hair 
tossed  wildly  around  his  powder-blackened  face. 

Widow  Eunice  Bishop  scuttled  into  her  bed 
room,  and  got  her  best  silk  hood  and  her  gilt- 
19 


SILENCE 

framed  looking-glass.     "Silence,  get  out  the 
feather-bed  !"  she  shrieked. 

The  keeping-room  was  stifling  with  smoke. 
Captain  Moulton  loosened  a  window  -  shutter 
cautiously  and  peered  out.  "I  see  no  sign  of 
the  savages/'  he  said.  They  unbolted  the  door, 
and  opened  it  inch  by  inch,  but  there  was  no 
exultant  shout  in  response.  The  crack  of  muskets 
on  the  meadow  sounded  louder ;  that  was  all. 

Widow  Eunice  Bishop  pushed  forward  before 
the  others ;  the  danger  by  fire  to  her  household 
goods  had  driven  her  own  danger  from  her  mind, 
which  could  compass  but  one  terror  at  a  time. 
' s  Let  me  forth  I"  she  cried ;  and  she  laid  the 
looking-glass  and  silk  hood  on  the  snow,  and 
pelted  back  into  the  smoke  for  her  feather-bed 
and  the  best  andirons. 

Silence  carried  out  the  spinning-wheel,  and 
the  others  caught  up  various  articles  which  they 
had  wit  to  see  in  the  panic.  They  piled  them  up 
on  the  snow  outside,  and  huddled  together,  star 
ing  fearfully  down  the  village  street.  They  saw, 
amid  the  smouldering  ruins,  Ensign  John  Shel 
don's  house  standing. 

"  We  must  make  for  that,"  said  Captain  Isaac 
Moulton,  and  they  started.  The  men  went  before 
and  behind,  with  their  muskets  in  readiness,  and 
the  women  and  children  walked  between.  Wid 
ow  Bishop  carried  the  looking  -  glass  ;  some 
body  had  helped  her  to  bring  out  her  feather- 
20 


SILENCE 

bed,  and  she  had  dragged  it  to  a  clean  place  well 
away  from  the  burning  house. 

The  dawnlight  lay  pale  and  cold  in  the  east ; 
it  was  steadily  overcoming  the  fire-glow  from  the 
ruins.  Nobody  would  have  known  Deerfield  vil 
lage.  The  night  before  the  sun  had  gone  down 
upon  the  snowy  slants  of  humble  roofs  and  the 
peaceful  rise  of  smoke  from  pleasant  hearth  fires. 
The  curtained  windows  had  gleamed  out  one  by 
one  with  mild  candle-light,  and  serene  faces  of 
white -capped  matrons  preparing  supper  had 
passed  them.  Now,  on  both  sides  of  Deerfield 
street  were  beds  of  glowing  red  coals  ;  grotesque 
ruins  of  door-posts  and  chimneys  in  the  sem 
blances  of  blackened  martyrs  stood  crumbling  in 
the  midst  of  them,  and  twisted  charred  heaps, 
which  the  people  eyed  trembling,  lay  in  the  old 
doorways.  The  snow  showed  great  red  patches 
in  the  gathering  light,  and  in  them  lay  still  bodies 
that  seemed  to  move. 

Silence  Hoit  sprang  out  from  the  hurrying 
throng,  and  turned  the  head  of  one  dead  man 
whose  face  she  could  not  see.  The  horror  of  his 
red  crown  did  not  move  her.  She  only  saw  that 
he  was  not  David  Walcott.  She  stooped  and 
wiped  off  her  hands  in  some  snow. 

"  That  is  Israel  Bennett,"  the  others  groaned. 

John  Carson's  wife  had  been  the  dead  man's 
sister.  She  hugged  her  baby  tighter,  and  pressed 
more  closely  to  her  husband's  back.  There  was 
21 


SILENCE 

no  longer  any  sound  of  musketry  on  the  meadows. 
There  was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  except  the 
wind  in  the  dry  trees  and  the  panting  breaths  of 
the  knot  of  people. 

A  dead  baby  lay  directly  in  the  path,  and  a 
woman  caught  it  up,  and  tried  to  warm  it  at  her 
breast.  She  wrapped  her  cloak  around  it,  and 
wiped  its  little  bloody  face  with  her  apron. 
"  'Tis  not  dead,"  she  declared,  frantically;  "the 
child  is  not  dead  !"  She  had  not  shed  a  tear  nor 
uttered  a  wail  before,  but  now  she  began  sobbing 
aloud  over  the  dead  child,  it  was  Goodwife 
Barnard's,  and  no  kin  to  her ;  she  was  a  single 
woman.  The  others  were  looking  right  and  left 
for  lurking  savages  ;  she  looked  only  at  the  little 
cold  face  on  her  bosom.  "  The  child  breathes," 
she  said,  and  hurried  on  faster  that  she  might 
get  succor  for  it. 

The  party  halted  before  Ensign  John  Sheldon's 
house.  The  stout  door  was  fast,  but  there  was 
a  hole  in  it,  as  if  hacked  by  a  tomahawk.  The 
men  tried  it  and  shook  it.  "  Open,  open,  Good- 
wife  Sheldon!"  they  hallooed.  "Friends! 
friends  !  Open  the  door !"  But  there  was  no 
response. 

Silence  Hoit  left  the  throng  at  the  door,  and 
began  clambering  up  on  a  slant  of  icy  snow  to 
a  window  which  was  flung  wide  open.  The 
window-sill  was  stained  with  blood,  and  so  was 
the  snow. 

22 


SILENCE 

One  of  the  men  caught  Silence  and  tried  to 
hold  her  back.  "  There  may  be  Indians  in  there/' 
he  whispered,  hoarsely. 

But  Silence  broke  away  from  him,  and  was  in 
through  the  window,  and  the  men  followed  her, 
and  unbolted  the  door  for  the  women,  who  pressed 
in  wildly,  and  flung  it  to  again.  A  child  who 
was  among  them,  little  Comfort  Arms,  stationed 
herself  directly  with  her  tiny  back  against  the 
door,  with  her  mouth  set  like  a  soldier's,  and  her 
blue  eyes  gleaming  fierce  under  her  flaxen  locks. 
"They  shall  not  get  in,"  said  she.  Somehow 
she  had  gotten  hold  of  a  great  horse-pistol,  which 
she  carried  like  a  doll. 

Nobody  heeded  her,  Silence  least  of  all.  She 
stared  about  the  room,  with  her  lips  parted. 
Eight  before  her  on  the  hearth  lay  a  little  three- 
year-old  girl,  Mercy  Sheldon,  her  pretty  head  in 
a  pool  of  blood,  but  Silence  cast  only  an  indiffer 
ent  glance  when  the  others  gathered  about  her, 
groaning  and  sighing. 

Suddenly  Silence  sprang  towards  a  dark  heap 
near  the  pantry  door,  but  it  was  only  a  woman's 
quilted  petticoat. 

The  spinning-wheel  lay  broken  on  the  floor, 
and  all  the  simple  furniture  was  strewn  about 
wildly.  Silence  went  into  Goodwife  Sheldon's 
bedroom,  and  the  others  followed  her,  trembling, 
all  except  little  Comfort  Arms,  who  stood  un 
flinchingly  with  her  back  pressed  against  the 
23 


SILENCE 

door,  and  the  single  woman,  Grace  Mather ;  she 
stayed  behind,  and  put  wood  on  the  fire,  after  she 
had  picked  np  the  quilted  petticoat,  and  laid  the 
dead  baby  tenderly  wrapped  in  it  on  the  settle. 
Then  she  pulled  the  settle  forward  before  the  fire, 
and  knelt  before  it,  and  fell  to  chafing  the  little 
limbs  of  the  dead  baby,  weeping  as  she  did  so. 

Goodwife  Sheldon's  bedroom  was  in  wild  dis 
order.  A  candle  still  burned,  although  it  was 
very  low,  on  the  table,  whose  linen  cover  had 
great  red  finger-prints  on  it.  Goodwife  Sheldon's 
decent  clothes  were  tossed  about  on  the  floor ; 
the  curtains  of  the  bed  were  half  torn  away. 
Silence  pressed  forward  unshrinkingly  towards 
the  bed ;  the  others,  even  the  men,  hung  back. 
There  lay  Goodwife  Sheldon  dead  in  her  bed. 
All  the  light  in  the  room,  the  candle-light  and 
the  low  daylight,  seemed  to  focus  upon  her  white, 
frozen  profile  propped  stiffly  on  the  pillow,  where 
she  had  fallen  back  when  the  bullet  came  through 
that  hole  in  the  door. 

Silence  looked  at  her.  "Where  is  David, 
Goodwife  Sheldon  ?"  said  she. 

Eunice  Bishop  sprang  forward.  "Be  you 
clean  out  of  your  mind,  Silence  Hoit  ?"  she  cried. 
"  Know  you  not  she's  dead  ?  She's  dead  !  Oh, 
she's  dead,  she's  dead  !  An'  here's  her  best  silk 
hood  trampled  underfoot  on  the  floor  !"  Eunice 
snatched  up  the  hood,  and  seized  Silence  by  the 
arm,  but  she  pushed  her  back. 
24 


SILENCE 

"  Where  is  David  ?  Where  is  he  gone  ?"  she 
demanded  again  of  the  dead  woman. 

The  other  women  came  crowding  around 
Silence  then,  and  tried  to  soothe  her  and  reason 
with  her,  while  their  own  faces  were  white  with 
horror  and  woe.  Goodwife  Sarah  Spear,  an  old 
woman  whose  sons  lay  dead  in  the  street  outside, 
put  an  arm  around  the  girl,  and  tried  to  draw  her 
head  to  her  broad  bosom. 

"  Mayhap  you  will  find  him,  sweetheart,"  she 
said.  "  He's  not  among  the  dead  out  there." 

But  Silence  broke  away  from  the  motherly 
arm,  and  sped  wildly  through  the  other  rooms, 
with  the  people  at  her  heels,  and  her  aunt  crying 
vainly  after  her.  They  found  no  more  dead  in 
the  house  ;  naught  but  ruin  and  disorder,  and 
bloody  footprints  and  handprints  of  savages. 

When  they  returned  to  the  keeping-room, 
Silence  seated  herself  on  a  stool  by  the  fire,  and 
held  out  her  hands  towards  the  blaze  to  warm 
them.  The  daylight  was  broad  outside  now,  and 
the  great  clock  that  had  come  from  overseas 
ticked  ;  the  Indians  had  not  touched  that. 

Captain  Isaac  Moulton  lifted  little  Mercy  Shel 
don  from  the  hearth  and  carried  her  to  her  dead 
mother  in  the  bedroom,  and  two  of  the  older 
women  went  in  there  and  shut  the  door.  Little 
Comfort  Arms  still  stood  with  her  back  against 
the  outer  door,  and  Grace  Mather  tended  the 
dead  baby  on  the  settle. 
25 


SILENCE 

"What  do  ye  with  that  dead  child  ?"  a  woman 
called  out  roughly  to  her. 

"I  tell  ye  'tis  not  dead;  it  breathes,"  returned 
Grace  Mather  ;  and  she  never  turned  her  harsh, 
plain  face  from  the  dead  child. 

"  An'  I  tell  ye  'tis  dead." 

"An'  I  tell  ye  'tis  not  dead.  I  need  but  some 
hot  posset  for  it." 

Goodwife  Carson  began  to  weep.  She  hugged 
her  own  living  baby  tighter.  "Let  her  alone  !" 
she  sobbed.  "  I  wonder  our  wits  be  not  all  gone." 
She  went  sobbing  over  to  little  Comfort  Arms  at 
the  door.  "Come  away,  sweetheart,  and  draw 
near  the  fire,"  she  pleaded,  brokenly. 

The  little  girl  looked  obstinately  up  at  her. 
"They  shall  not  come  in,"  she  said.  "The 
wicked  savages  shall  not  come  in  again." 

"No  more  shall  they,  an'  the  Lord  be  willing, 
sweet.  But,  I  pray  you,  come  away  from  the 
door  now." 

Comfort  shook  her  head,  and  she  looked  like 
her  father  as  he  fought  on  the  Deerfield  mead 
ows. 

"The  savages  are  gone,  sweet." 

But  Comfort  answered  not  a  word,  and  Good- 
wife  Carson  sat  down  and  began  to  nurse  her 
baby.  One  of  the  women  hung  the  porridge- 
kettle  over  the  fire ;  another  put  some  potatoes 
in  the  ashes  to  bake.  Presently  the  two  women 
came  out  of  Goodwife  Sheldon's  bedroom  with 
26 


SILENCE 

grave,  strained  faces,  and  held  their  stiff  bine 
fingers  out  to  the  hearth  fire. 

Ennice  Bishop,  who  was  stirring  the  porridge, 
looked  at  them  with  sharp  curiosity.  "  How  look 
they  ?"  she  whispered. 

"As  peaceful  as  if  they  slept,"  replied  Good- 
wife  Spear,  who  was  one  of  the  women. 

"And  the  child's  head  ?" 

"  We  put  on  her  little  white  cap  with  the  lace 
frills." 

Eunice  stirred  the  bubbling  porridge,  scowling 
in  the  heat  and  steam ;  some  of  the  women  laid 
the  table  with  Hannah  Sheldon's  linen  cloth  and 
pewter  dishes,  and  presently  the  breakfast  was 
dished  up. 

Little  Comfort  Arms  had  sunk  at  the  foot  of 
the  nail -studded  door  in  a  deep  slumber.  She 
slept  at  her  post  like  the  faithless  sentry  whose 
slumbers  the  night  before  had  brought  about  the 
destruction  of  Deerfield  village.  Goodwife  Spear 
raised  her  up,  but  her  curly  head  drooped  help 
lessly. 

"Wake  up,  Comfort,  and  have  a  sup  of  hot 
porridge,"  she  called  in  her  ear. 

She  led  her  over  to  the  table,  Comfort  stum 
bling  weakly  at  arm's-length,  and  set  her  on  a 
stool  with  a  dish  of  porridge  before  her,  which 
she  ate  uncertainly  in  a  dazed  fashion,  with  her 
eyes  filming  and  her  head  nodding. 

They  all  gathered  gravely  around  the  table, 
27 


SILENCE 

except  Silence  Hoit  and  Grace  Mather.  Silence 
sat  still,  staring  at  the  fire,  and  Grace  had  dipped 
out  a  little  cnp  of  the  hot  porridge,  and  was  try 
ing  to  feed  it  to  the  dead  baby,  with  crooning 
words. 

" Silence,  why  come  yon  not  to  the  table?" 
her  aunt  called  out. 

"  I  want  nothing/'  answered  Silence. 

"I  see  not  why  you  should  so  set  yourself  up 
before  the  others,  as  having  so  much  more  to 
bear,"  said  Eunice,  sharply.  "There  is  Good- 
wife  Spear,  with  her  sons  unburied  on  the  road 
yonder,  and  she  eats  her  porridge  with  good 
relish." 

John  Carson's  wife  set  her  baby  on  her  hus 
band's  knee,  and  carried  a  dish  of  porridge  to 
Silence. 

"Try  and  eat  it,  sweet,"  she  whispered.  She 
was  near  Silence's  age. 

Silence  looked  up  at  her.  "I  want  it  not," 
said  she. 

"But  he  may  not  be  dead,  sweet.  He  may 
presently  be  home.  You  would  not  he  should 
find  you  spent  and  fainting.  Perchance  he  may 
have  wounds  for  you  to  tend." 

Silence  seized  the  dish  and  began  to  eat  the 
porridge  in  great  spoonfuls,  gulping  it  down  fast. 

The  people  at  the  table  eyed  her  sadly  and 
whispered,  and  they  also  cast  frequent  glances  at 
Grace  Mather  bending  over  the  dead  baby.  Once 
28 


SILENCE 

Captain  Isaac  Moulton  called  out  to  her  in  his 
gruff  old  voice,  which  he  tried  to  soften,  and  she 
answered  back,  sharply  :  "  Think  ye  I  will  leave 
this  child  while  it  breathes,  Captain  Isaac  Moul 
ton  ?  In  faith  I  am  the  only  one  of  ye  all  who 
has  regard  to  it." 

But  suddenly,  when  the  meal  was  half  over, 
Grace  Mather  arose,  and  gathered  up  the  little 
dead  baby,  carried  it  into  Goodwife  Sheldon's 
bedroom,  and  was  gone  some  time. 

"  She  has  lost  her  wits,"  said  Eunice  Bishop. 
"  Think  you  not  we  should  follow  her  ?  She 
may  do  some  harm." 

"Nay,  let  her  be,"  said  Goodwife  Spear. 

When  at  last  Grace  Mather  came  out  of  the 
bedroom,  and  they  all  turned  to  look  at  her,  her 
face  was  stern  but  quite  composed.  "  I  found  a 
little  clean  linen  shift  in  the  chest,"  she  said  to 
Goodwife  Spear,  who  nodded  gravely.  Then  she 
sat  down  at  the  table  and  ate. 

The  people,  as  they  ate,  cast  frequent  glances 
at  the  barred  door  and  the  shuttered  windows. 
The  daylight  was  broad  outside,  but  there  was 
no  glimmer  of  it  in  the  room,  and  the  candles 
were  lighted.  They  dared  not  yet  remove  the 
barricades,  and  the  muskets  were  in  readiness  : 
the  Indians  might  return. 

All  at  once  there  was  a  shrill  clamor  at  the 
door,  and  men  sprang  to  their  muskets.  The 
women  clutched  each  other,  panting. 


SILENCE 

"Unbar  the  door  !"  shrieked  a  quavering  old 
voice.  "  I  tell  ye,  unbar  the  door  !  I  be  nigh 
frozen  a-standing  here.  Unbar  the  door  !  The 
Indians  are  gone  hours  ago." 

"'Tis  Goody  Crane  I"  cried  Eunice  Bishop. 

Captain  Isaac  Moulton  shot  back  the  bolts  and 
opened  the  door  a  little  way,  while  the  men  stood 
close  at  his  back,  and  Goody  Crane  slid  in  like  a 
swift  black  shadow  out  of  the  daylight. 

She  crouched  down  close  to  the  fire,  trembling 
and  groaning,  and  the  women  gave  her  some  hot 
porridge. 

' '  Where  have  ye  been  ?"  demanded  Eunice 
Bishop. 

"  Where  they  found  me  not,"  replied  the  old 
woman,  and  there  was  a  sudden  leer  like  a  light 
in  the  gloom  of  her  great  hood.  She  motioned 
towards  the  bedroom  door. 

"  Goody  Sheldon  sleeps  late  this  morning,  and 
so  doth  Mercy,"  said  she.  "I  trow  she  will  not 
dip  her  candles  to-day." 

The  people  looked  at  each  other ;  a  subtler 
horror  than  that  of  the  night  before  shook  their 
spirits. 

Captain  Isaac  Moulton  towered  over  the  old 
woman  on  the  hearth.  "  How  knew  you  Good- 
wife  Sheldon  and  Mercy  were  dead  ?"  he  asked, 
Bternly. 

The  old  woman  leered  up  at  him  undauntedly; 
her  head  bobbed.  There  was  a  curious  grotesque- 
30 


S I L  E  N  C  E 

ness  about  her  blanketed  and  hooded  figure  when 
in  motion.  There  was  so  little  of  the  old  woman 
herself  visible  that  motion  surprised,  as  it  would 
have  done  in  a  puppet.  "Told  I  not  Goody 
Sheldon  last  night  she  would  never  stir  porridge 
again  ?"  said  she.  ' '  Who  stirred  the  porridge17 
this  morning  ?  I  trow  Goody  Sheldon's  hands 
be  too  stiff  and  too  cold,  though  they  have  stirred 
well  in  their  day.  Hath  she  dipped  her  candles 
yet  ?  Hath  she  begun  on  her  weaving  ?  I  trow 
'twill  be  a  long  day  ere  Mary  Sheldon's  linen-chest 
be  filled,  if  she  herself  go  a-gadding  to  Canada 
and  her  mother  sleep  so  late/' 

"Eat  this  hot  porridge  and  stop  your  croaking," 
said  Goodwife  Spear,  stooping  over  her. 

The  old  woman  extended  her  two  shaking 
hands  for  the  dish.  "  That  was  what  she  said 
last  night/'  she  returned.  "  The  living  echo 
the  dead,  and  that  is  enough  wisdom  for  a 
witch/' 

"You'll  be  burned  for  a  witch  yet,  Goody 
Crane,  an  you  be  not  careful/'  cried  Eunice 
Bishop. 

"  There  is  fire  enough  outside  to  burn  all  the  j 
witches  in  the  land/7  muttered  the  old  woman,  [ 
sipping  her  porridge.     Suddenly  she  eyed  Silence 
sitting   motionless   opposite.     "  Where  be  your 
sweetheart  this  fine  morning,  Silence  Hoit?"  she 
inquired. 

Silence  looked  at  her.     There  was  a  strange 
31 


SILENCE 

likeness  between  the  glitter  in  her  blue  eyes  and 
that  in  Goody  Crane's  black  ones. 

The  old  woman's  great  hood  nodded  over  the 
porridge-dish.  "  I  can  tell  ye,  Mistress  Silence," 
she  said,  thickly,  as  she  ate.  "He  is  gone  to 
Canada  on  a  moose -hunt,  and  unless  I  be  far 
wrong,  he  hath  taken  thy  wits  with  him." 

"How  know  you  David  Walcott  is  gone  to 
Canada  ?"  cried  Eunice  Bishop ;  and  Silence 
stared  at  her  with  her  hard  blue  eyes. 

Silence's  soft  fair  hair  hung  all  matted  like 
uncombed  flax  over  her  pale  cheeks.  There  was 
a  rigid,  dead  look  about  her  girlish  forehead  and 
her  sweet  mouth. 

"  I  know,"  returned  Goody  Crane,  nodding  her 
head. 

The  women  washed  the  pewter  dishes,  set  them 
back  on  the  dresser,  and  swept  the  floor.  Little 
Comfort  Arms  had  been  carried  up-stairs  and 
laid  in  the  bed  whence  poor  Mary  Sheldon  had 
been  dragged  and  haled  to  Canada.  The  men 
stood  talking  near  their  stacked  muskets.  One 
of  the  shutters  had  been  opened  and  the  candles 
put  out.  The  winter  sun  shone  in  the  window 
as  it  had  shone  before,  but  the  poor  folk  in  En 
sign  Sheldon's  keeping-room  saw  it  with  a  certain 
shock,  as  if  it  were  a  stranger.  That  morning 
their  own  hearts  had  in  them  such  strangeness 
that  they  transferred  it  like  motion  to  all  famil 
iar  objects.  The  very  iron  dogs  in  the  Sheldon 


SILENCE 

fireplace  seemed  on  the  leap  with  tragedy,  and 
the  porridge  -  kettle  swung  darkly  out  of  some 
former  age. 

Now  and  then  one  of  the  men  opened  the  door 
cautiously  and  peered  out  and  listened.  The 
reek  of  the  smouldering  village  came  in  at  the 
door,  but  there  was  not  a  sound  except  the 
whistling  howl  of  the  savage  north  wind,  which 
still  swept  over  the  valley.  ^There  was  not  a 
shot  to  be  heard  from  the  meadows.  The  men 
discussed  the  wisdom  of  leaving  the  women  for 
a  short  space  and  going  forth  to  explore,  but 
Widow  Eunice  Bishop  interposed,  thrusting  her 
sharp  face  in  among  them. 

"  Here  we  be,"  scolded  she,  "a  passel  of  wom 
en  and  children,  and  Hannah  Sheldon  and  Mercy 
a-lying  dead,  and  me  with  my  house  burnt  down, 
and  nothing  saved  except  my  silk  hood  and  my  / 
looking-glass   and   my  feather-bed,  and  it's  a/ 
mercy  if  that's  not  all  smooched,  and  you  talk 
of  going  off  and  leaving  us  !" 

The  men  looked  doubtfully  at  one  another; 
then  there  was  the  hissing  creak  of  footsteps  on 
the  snow  outside,  and  Widow  Bishop  screamed. 
se  Oh,  the  Indians  have  come  back  !"  she  pro 
claimed. 

Silence  looked  up. 

The  door  was  tried  from  without. 

"Who's  there?"  cried  out  Captain  Moul- 
ton. 


SILENCE 

"John  Sheldon,"  responded  a  hoarse  voice. 
"Who's  inside?" 

Captain  Monlton  threw  open  the  door,  and 
John  Sheldon  stood  there.  His  severe  and  sober 
face  was  painted  like  an  Indian's  with  blood  and 
powder  grime ;  he  stood  staring  in  at  the  com 
pany. 

"  Come  in,  quick,  and  let  ns  bar  the  door !" 
screamed  Eunice  Bishop. 

John  Sheldon  came  in  hesitatingly,  and  stood 
looking  around  the  room, 

"Have  you  but  just  come  from  the  mead 
ows  ?"  inquired  Captain  Moulton.  But  John 
Sheldon  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  He  stared 
at  the  company,  who  all  stood  still  staring  back 
at  him ;  then  he  looked  hard  and  long  at  the 
doors,  as  if  expecting  some  one  to  enter.  The 
eyes  of  the  others  followed  his,  but  no  one  spoke. 

"Where's  Hannah  ?"  asked  John  Sheldon. 

Then  the  women  began  to  weep. 

"  She's  in  there,"  sobbed  John  Carson's  wife, 
pointing  to  the  bedroom  door — "  in  there  with 
little  Mercy,  Goodman  Sheldon." 

"  Is— the  child  hurt,  and — Hannah  a-tending 
her  ?" 

The  women  wept,  and  pushed  each  other  for 
ward  to  tell  him,  but  Captain  Isaac  Moulton 
spoke  out,  and  drove  the  knife  home  like  an 
honest  soldier,  who  will  kill  if  he  must,  but  not 
mangle. 

34 


SILENCE 

"  Goodwife  Sheldon  lies  yonder,  shot  dead  in 
her  bed,  and  we  found  the  child  dead  on  the 
hearth-stone,"  said  Isaac  Moulton. 

John  Sheldon  turned  his  gaze  on  him. 

"The  judgments  of  the  Lord  are  just  and 
righteous  altogether,"  said  Isaac  Moulton,  con 
fronting  him  with  stern  defiance. 

"Amen/7  returned  John  Sheldon.  lie  took 
oft'  his  cloak,  and  hung  it  up  on  the  peg  as  he 
was  used. 

"Where  is  David  Walcott  ?"  asked  Silence, 
standing  before  him. 

"  David,  he  is  gone  with  the  Indians  to  Can 
ada,  and  the  boys,  Ebenezer  and  Remembrance." 

"  Where  is  David  ?" 

"  I  tell  ye,  lass,  he  is  gone  with  the  French 
and  Indians  to  Canada ;  and  you  need  be  thank 
ful  he  was  but  your  sweetheart,  and  ye  not  wed, 
witli  a  half-score  of  babes  to  be  taken  too.  The 
curse  that  was  upon  the  women  of  Jerusalem  is 
upon  the  women  of  Deerfield."  John  Sheldon 
looked  sternly  into  Silence's  white  wild  face; 
then  his  voice  softened.  "  Take  heart,  lass," 
said  he.  "Erelong  I  shall  go  to  Governor  Dud 
ley  and  get  help,  and  then  after  them  to  Canada, 
and  fetch  them  back.  Take  heart ;  I  will  fetch 
thee  thy  sweetheart  presently." 

Silence  returned  to  her  seat  in  the  fireplace. 
Goody  Crane  looked  across  at  her.  "  lie  will 
come  back  over  the  north  meadow,"  she  whis- 
35 


SILENCE 

pered.  "  Keep  watch  over  the  north  meadow; 
but  'twill  be  a  long  day  ere  ye  see  him." 

Silence  paid  seemingly  little  heed.  She  paid 
little  heed  to  Ensign  John  Sheldon  relating  how 
the  French  and  Indians,  with  Hertel  de  Eouville 
at  their  head,  were  on  the  road  to  Canada  with 
their  captives ;  of  the  fight  on  the  meadow  be 
tween  the  retreating  foe  and  the  brave  band  of 
Deerfield  and  Hatfield  men,  who  had  made  a 
stand  there  to  intercept  them;  how  they  had 
been  obliged  to  cease  firing  because  the  captives 
were  threatened;  and  the  pitiful  tale  of  Par 
son  John  Williams,  two  of  whose  children  were 
killed,  dragged  through  the  wilderness  with  the 
others,  and  his  sick  wife. 

"  Had  folk  listened  to  him,  we  had  all  been 
safe  in  our  good  houses  with  our  belongings," 
cried  Eunice  Bishop. 

"  They  will  not  drag  Goodwife  Williams  far," 
said  Goody  Crane,  "  nor  the  babe  at  her  breast. 
I  trow  well  it  hath  stopped  wailing  ere  now." 

"  How  know  you  that  ?"  questioned  Eunice 
Bishop,  turning  sharply  on  her. 

But  the  old  woman  only  nodded  her  head,  and 
Silence  paid  no  heed,  for  she  was  not  there. 
Her  slender  girlish  shape  sat  by  the  hearth  fire 
in  John  Sheldon's  house  in  Deerfield,  her  fair 
head  showed  like  a  delicate  flower,  but  Silence 
Hoit  was  following  her  lover  to  Canada.  Every 
step  that  he  took  painfully  through  pathless 


SILENCE 

forests,  on  treacherous  ice,  and  desolate  snow 
fields,  she  took  more  painfully  still ;  every  knife 
gleaming  over  his  head  she  saw.  She  bore  his 
every  qualm  of  hunger  and  pain  and  cold,  and  it 
was  all  the  harder  because  they  struck  on  her 
bare  heart  with  no  flesh  between,  for  she  sat  in 
the  flesh  in  Deerfield,  and  her  heart  went  with 
her  lover  to  Canada. 

The  sun  stood  higher,  but  it  was  still  bitter 
cold ;  the  blue  frost  on  the  windows  did  not 
melt,  and  the  icicles  on  the  eaves,  which  nearly 
touched  the  sharp  snow-drifts  underneath,  did 
not  drip.  The  desolate  survivors  of  the  terrible 
night  began  work  among  the  black  ruins  of  their 
homes.  They  cared  as  well  as  they  might  for 
the  dead  in  Deerfield  street,  and  the  dead  on  the 
meadow  where  the  fight  had  been.  Their 
muscles  were  all  tense  with  the  cold,  their  faces 
seamed  and  blue  with  it,  but  their  hearts  were 
strained  with  a  fiercer  cold  than  that.  Not  one 
man  of  them  but  had  one  or  more  slain,  with 
dead  face  upturned,  seeking  his  iu  the  morning 
light,  or  on  that  awful  road  to  Canada.  Ever  as 
the  men  worked  they  turned  their  eyes  north 
ward,  and  met  grimly  the  icy  blast  of  the  north 
wind,  and  sometimes  to  their  excited  fancies  it 
seemed  to  bring  to  their  ears  the  cries  of  their 
friends  who  were  facing  it  also,  and  they  stood 
still  and  listened. 

Silence  Hoit  crept  out  of  the  house  and  down 
37 


SILENCE 

the  road  a  little  way,  and  then  stood  looking 
over  the  meadow  towards  the  north.  Her  fair 
hair  tossed  in  the  wind,  her  pale  cheeks  turned 
pink,  the  wind  struck  full  upon  her  delicate 
figure.  She  had  come  out  without  her  blanket. 

"David!"  she  called.  "David!  David! 
David  I"  The  north  wind  lx>re  down  upon  her, 
shrieking  with  a  wild  furyMike  a  savage  of  the 
air ;  the  dry  branches  of  a  small  tree  near  her 
struck  her  in  the  face.  "  David  I"  she  called 
again.  "  David  !  David  I"  She  swelled  out 
her  white  throat  like  a  bird,  and  her  voice  was 
shrill  and  sweet  and  far-reaching.  The  men 
moving  about  on  the  meadow  below,  and  stoop 
ing  over  the  dead,  looked  up  at  her,  but  she  did 
not  heed  them.  She  had  come  through  a  break 
in  the  palisades  ;  on  each  side  of  her  the  frozen 
snow-drifts  slanted  sharply  to  their  tops,  and 
they  glittered  with  blue  lights  like  glaciers  in 
the  morning  sun  over  those  drifts  the  enemy  had 
passed  the  night  before. 

The  men  on  the  meadow  saw  Silence's  hair 
blowing  like  a  yellow  banner  between  the  drifts 
of  snow. 

"  The  poor  lass  has  come  out  bareheaded," 
said  Ensign  Sheldon.  "  She  is  near  out  of  her 
mind  for  David  Walcott." 

"  A  man  should  have  no  sweetheart  in  these 
times,  unless  he  would  her  heart  be  broke,"  said 
a  young  man  beside  him.  He  was  hardly  more 
38 


SILENCE 

than  a  boy,  and  his  face  was  as  rosy  as  a  girl's  in 
the  wind.  He  kept  close  to  Ensign  Sheldon, 
and  his  mind  was  full  of  young  Mary  Sheldon 
travelling  to  Canada  on  her  weary  little  feet. 
He  had  often,  on  a  Sabbath  day,  looked  across 
the  meeting-house  at  her,  and  thought  that 
there  was  no  maiden  like  her  in  Deerfield. 

Ensign  John  Sheldon  thought  of  his  sweet 
heart  lying  with  her  heart  still  in  her  freezing 
bedroom,  and  stooped  over  a  dead  Ilatfield  man 
whose  face  was  frozen  into  the  snow. 

The  young  man,  whose  name  was  Freedom 
Wells,  bent  over  to  help  him.  Then  he  started. 
"What's  that?"  he  cried. 

**'  'Tis  only  Silence  Hoit  calling  David  Walcott 
again,"  replied  Ensign  Sheldon. 

The  voice  had  sounded  like  Mary  Sheldon's  to 
Freedom.  The  tears  rolled  over  his  boyish 
cheeks  as  he  put  his  hands  into  the  snow  and 
tried  to  dig  it  away  from  the  dead  man's  face. 

"  David  !     David  !     David  !"  called  Silence. 

Suddenly  her  aunt  threw  a  wiry  arm  around 
her.  "Be  you  gone  clean  daft/' she  shrieked 
against  the  wind,  "  standing  here  calling  David 
Walcott?  Know  you  not  he  is  a  half -day's 
journey  towards  Canada  an  the  savages  have  not 
scalped  him  and  left  him  by  the  way  ?  Stand 
ing  here  with  your  hair  blowing  and  no  blanket ! 
Into  the  house  with  ye  !" 

Silence  followed  her  aunt  unresistingly.  The 
39 


SILENCE 

women  in  Ensign  Sheldon's  house  were  hard  at 
work.  They  were  baking  in  the  great  brick 
oven,  spinning,  and  even  dipping  poor  Goodwife 
Sheldon's  candles. 

"  Bind  up  your  hair,  like  an  honest  maid,  and 
go  to  spinning,"  said  Eunice,  and  she  pointed  to 
the  spinning-wheel  which  had  been  saved  from 
her  own  house.  "  We  that  be  spared  have  to 
work,  and  not  sit  down  and  trot  our  own  hearts 
on  our  knees.  There  is  scarce  a  yard  of  linen 
left  in  Deerfield,  to  say  naught  of  woollen  cloth. 
Bind  up  your  hair  I" 

And  Silence  bound  up  her  hair,  and  sat  down 
by  her  wheel  meekly,  and  yet  with  a  certain  dig 
nity.  Indeed,  through  all  the  disorder  of  her 
mind,  that  delicate  maiden  dignity  never  for 
sook  her,  and  there  was  never  aught  but  respect 
shown  her. 

As  time  went  on,  it  became  quite  evident  that 
although  the  fair  semblance  of  Silence  Hoit  still 
walked  the  Deerfield  street,  sat  in  the  meeting 
house,  and  toiled  at  the  spinning-wheel  and 
the  loom,  yet  she  was  as  surely  -not  there  as 
though  she  had  been  haled  to  Canada  with  the 
other  captives  on  that  terrible  February  night. 
It  became  the  general  opinion  that  Silence  Hoit 
would  never  be  quite  her  old  self  again  and 
walk  in  the  goodly  company  Of  all  her  fair  wits 
unless  David  Walcott  shou)^jbe  redeemed  from 
captivity  and  restored  to  her.  Then,  it  was  ac- 
40 


SILENCE 

counted  possible,,  the  mending  of  the  calamity 
which  had  brought  her  disorder  upon  her  might 
remove  it. 

"Ye  wait/'  Widow  Eunice  Bishop  would  say, 
hetchelling  flax  the  while  as  though  it  were  the 
scalp-locks  of  the  enemy — "ye  wait.  If  once 
David  Walcott  show  his  face,  ye'll  see  Silence 
Hoit  be  not  so  lacking.  She  hath  a  tenderer 
heart  than  some  I  could  mention,  who  go  about 
smiling  when  their  nearest  of  kin  lay  in  torment 
in  Indian  lodges.  She  cares  naught  for  picking 
up  a  new  sweetheart.  She  hath  a  steady  heart 
that  be  not  so  easy  turned  as  some.  Silence  was 
never  a  light  hussy,  a-dancing  hither  and  thither  j 
off  the  bridle-path  for  a  new  flower  on  the  bushes. 
An',  for  all  ye  call  her  lacking  now,  there  be  not 
a  maid  in  Deerfield  does  such  a  day's  task  as  she." 

And  that  last  statement  was  quite  true.  All 
the  Deerfield  women,  the  matrons  and  maidens, 
toiled  unceasingly,  with  a  kind  of  stern  patience 
like  that  which  served  their  husbands  and  lovers 
in  the  frontier  corn-fields,  and  which  served  all 
the  dauntless  border  settlers,  who  were  forced 
continually  to  rebuild  after  destruction,  like 
way-side  ants  whose  nests  are  always  being 
trampled  underfoot.  There  was  need  of  un 
flinching  toil  at  wheel  and  loom,  for  there  was 
great  scarcity  of  household  linen  in  Deerfield, 
and  Silence  Hoit's  shapely  white  maiden  hands 
flinched  less  than  any. 

41 


SILENCE 

Nevertheless,  many  a  day,  in  the  morning 
when  the  snowy  meadows  were  full  of  blue 
lights,  at  sunset  when  all  the  snow  levels  were 
rosy,  but  more  particularly  in  wintry  moonlight 
when  the  country  was  like  a  waste  of  silver, 
would  Silence  Hoit  leave  suddenly  her  house 
hold  task,  and  hasten  to  the  terrace  overlooking 
the  north  meadow,  and  shriek  out:  "David! 
David  !  David  Walcott !" 

The  village  children  never  jeered  at  her,  as 
they  would  sometimes  jeer  at  Goody  Crane  if 
not  restrained  by  their  elders.  They  eyed  with 
a  mixture  of  wonder  and  admiration  Silence's 
beautiful  bewildered  face,  with  the  curves  of 
gold  hair  around  the  pink  cheeks,  and  the  fret 
work  of  tortoise-shell  surmounting  it.  David 
Walcott  had  given  Silence  her  shell  comb,  and 
she  was  never  seen  without  it. 

Many  a  time  when  Silence  called  to  David 
from  the  terrace  of  the  north  meadow,  some  of 
the  little  village  maids  in  their  homespun  pina 
fores  would  join  her  and  call  with  her.  They 
had  no  fear  of  her,  as  they  had  of  Goody  Crane. 

Indeed,  Goody  Crane,  after  the  massacre,  was 
in  worse  repute  than  ever  in  Deerfield.  There 
were  dark  rumors  concerning  her  whereabouts 
upon  that  awful  night.  Some  among  the  devout 
and  godly  were  fain  to  believe  that  the  old  wom 
an  had  been  in  league  with  the  powers  of  dark 
ness  and  their  allies  the  savages,  and  had  so 
42 


SILENCE 

escaped  harm.  Some  even  whispered  that  in  the 
thickest  of  the  slaughter,  when  Deerfield  was  in 
the  midst  of  that  storm  of  fire,  old  Goody  Crane's 
langh  had  been  heard,  and  one,  looking  up,  had 
spied  her  high  overhead  riding  her  broomstick, 
her  face  red  with  the  glare  of  the  flames.  The  old 
woman  was  sheltered  under  protest,  and  had 
Deerfield  not  been  a  frontier  town,  and  graver 
matters  continually  in  mind,  she  might  have 
come  to  harm  in  consequence  of  the  gloomy  sus 
picions  concerning  her. 

Many  a  night  after  the  massacre  would  the 
windows  fly  up  and  anxious  faces  peer  out.  It 
was  as  if  the  ears  of  the  people  were  tuned  up  to 
the  pitch  of  the  Indian  war  whoops,  and  their 
very  thoughts  made  the  nights  ring  with  them. 

The  palisades  were  well  looked  to ;  there  was 
never  a  slope  of  frozen  snow  again  to  form  foot 
hold  for  the  enemy,  and  the  sentry  never  slept 
at  his  post.  But  the  anxious  women  listened  all 
winter  for  the  warwhoops,  and  many  a  time  it 
seemed  they  heard  them.  In  the  midst  of  their 
nervous  terror  it  was  often  a  sore  temptation  to 
consult  old  Goody  Crane,  since  she  was  held  to 
have  occult  knowledge. 

"  I'll  warrant  old  Goody  Crane  could  tell  us  in 
a  twinkling  whether  or  no  the  Indians  would 
come  before  morning,"  Eunice  Bishop  said  one 
fierce  windy  night  that  called  to  mind  the  one  of 
the  massacre. 

43 


SILENCE 

/^  "  Knowledge  got  in  unlawful  ways  wonld  avail 
\  us  naught, " returned  Goodwife  Spear.  "I  trow 
\the  Lord  be  yet  able  to  protect  His  people." 

"  I  doubt  not  that/'  said  Eunice  Bishop,  "  but 
I  would  like  well  to  know  if  I  had  best  bury  my 
hood  and  my  spinning-wheel  and  looking-glass 
in  a  snow-drift  to-night.  I  have  no  mind  the 
Indians  shall  get  them.  I  warrant  she  knows 
well." 

But  Eunice  Bishop  did  not  consult  Goody 
Crane,  although  she  watched  her  narrowly  and 
had  a  sharp  ear  to  her  mutterings  as  she  sat  in 
the  chimney-corner.  Eunice  and  Silence  were 
living  in  John  Sheldon's  house,  as  did  many  of 
the  survivors  for  some  time  after  the  massacre. 
It  was  the  largest  house  in  the  village,  and  most 
of  its  original  inhabitants  were  dead  or  gone  into 
captivity.  The  people  all  huddled  together  fear 
fully  in  the  few  houses  that  were  left,  and  the 
women's  spinning-wheels  and  looms  jostled  each 
other. 

As  soon  as  the  weather  moderated,  the  work 
of  building  new  dwellings  commenced,  and  went 
on  bravely  with  the  advance  of  the  spring.  The 
air  was  full  of  the  calls  of  spring  birds  and  the 
strokes  of  axes  and  hammers.  A  little  house 
was  built  on  the  site  of  their  old  one  for  Widow 
Bishop  and  Silence  Hoit.  Widow  Sarah  Spear 
also  lived  with  them,  and  Goody  Crane  took  fre 
quent  shelter  at  their  fireside.  So  they  were 
44 


SILENCE 

a  hou§ehol<|  of  women,  with  loaded  muskets  at 
Hand,  ancl  spinning -wheels  and  looms  ~  at  full 
hum.  They  had  but  a  scanty  household  store, 
although  Widow  Bishop  tried  in  every  way  to  in 
crease  it.  Several  times  during  the  summer  she 
took  perilous  journeys  to  Hatfield  and  Squak- 
heak,  for  the  purpose  of  bartering  skeins  of  yarn 
or  rolls  of  wool  for  household  articles.  In  De 
cember,  when  Ensign  Sheldon  with  young  Free 
dom  Wells  went  down  to  Boston  to  consult  with 
Governor  Dudley  concerning  an  expedition  to 
Canada  to  redeem  the  captives,  Widow  Eunice 
Bishop,  having  saved  a  few  shillings,  burdened 
him  with  a  commission  to  purchase  for  her  a 
new  cap  and  a  pair  of  bellows.  She  was  much 
angered  when  he  returned  without  them,  having 
quite  forgotten  them  in  his  press  of  business. 

On  the  day  when  John  Sheldon  and  Freedom 
Wells  started  upon  their  terrible  journey  of 
three  hundred  miles  to  redeem  the  captives, 
Eunice  Bishop  scolded  well  as  she  spun  by  her 
hearth  tire. 

<(  I  trow  they  will  bring  back  nobody,"  said 
she,  her  nose  high  in  air,  and  her  voice  shrilling 
over  the  drone  of  the  wheel ;  "an  they  could  not 
do  the  bidding  of  a  poor  lone  widow-woman, 
and  fetch  her  the  cap  and  bellows  from  Boston, 
they'll  fetch  nobody  home  from  Canada.  I 
would  I  had  ear  of  Governor  Dudley.  I  trow 
men  with  minds  upon  their  task  would  be  sent*" 
45 


SILENCE 

Eunice  kept  jerking  her  head  as  she  scolded, 
and  spun  like  a  bee  angry  with  its  own  hum 
ming. 

Silence  sat  knitting,  and  paid  no  heed.  She 
had  paid  no  heed  to  any  of  the  talk  about  En 
sign  Sheldon's  and  Freedom  Wells's  journey  to 
Canada.  She  had  not  seemed  to  listen  when 
Widow  Spear  had  tried  to  explain  the  matter  to 
her.  "It  may  be,  sweetheart,  if  it  be  the  will 
of  the  Lord,  that  they  will  bring  David  back  to 
thee/'  she  had  said  over  and  over,  and  Silence 
had  knitted  and  made  no  response. 

She  was  the  only  one  in  Deerfield  who  was  not 
torn  with  excitement  and  suspense  as  the  months 
went  by,  and  the  only  one  unmoved  by  joy  or 
disappointment  when  in  May  John  Sheldon  and 
Freedom  Wells  returned  with  five  of  the  cap 
tives.  But  David  Walcott  was  not  among  them. 

"  Said  I  not  'twould  be  so  ?"  scolded  Eunice 
Bishop.  "Knew  I  not  'twould  be  so  when  they 
forgot  to  get  the  cap  and  the  bellows  in  Bos 
ton  ?  The  one  of  all  the  captives  that  could 
have  saved  a  poor  maid's  wits  they  leave  be 
hind.  There's  Mary  Sheldon  come  home,  and  she 
a-coloring  red  before  Freedom  Wells,  and  every 
body  in  the  room  a-seeing  it.  I  trow  they  might 
have  done  somewhat  for  poor  Silence,"  and 
Eunice  broke  down  and  wailed  and  wept,  but 
Silence  shed  not  a  tear.  Before  long  she  stole 
out  to  the  terrace  and  called  "  David  !  David  ! 
46 


SILENCE 

David  I"  over  the  north  meadow,,  and  strained 
her  blue  eyes  towards  Canada,  and  held  out  her 
fair  arms,  but  it  was  with  no  new  disappoint 
ment  and  desolation. 

There  was  never  a  day  nor  a  night  that  Silence 
called  not  over  the  north  meadow  like  a  spring 
bird  from  the  bush  to  her  absent  mate,  and 
people  heard  her  and  sighed  and  shuddered. 
One  afternoon  in  the  last  of  the  month  of  June, 
as  Silence  was  thrusting  her  face  between  the 
leaves  of  a  wild  cherry-tree  and  calling  "  David  ! 
David  !  David  !"  David  himself  broke  through 
the  thicket  and  stood  before  her.  lie  and  three 
other  young  men  had  escaped  from  their  cap 
tivity  and  come  home,  and  the  four,  crawling 
half  dead  across  the  meadow,  had  heard  Silence's 
voice  from  the  terrace  above,  and  David,  leaving 
the  others,  had  made  his  way  to  her. 

' '  Silence  !"  he  said,  and  held  out  his  poor 
arms,  panting. 

But  Silence  looked  past  him.  " David!  Da 
vid  !  David  Walcott !"  she  called. 

David  could  scarcely  stand  for  trembling,  and 
he  grasped  a  branch  of  the  cherry-tree  to  steady 
himself,  and  swayed  with  it. 

"  Know — you  not — who  I  am,  Silence  ?"  he 
said. 

But  she  made  as  though  she  did  not  hear,  and 
called  again,  always  looking  past  him.  And 
David  Walcott,  being  near  spent  with  fatigue 
47 


SILENCE 

and  starvation,  wound  himself  feebly  around  the 
trunk  of  the  tree,  and  the  tears  dropped  over  his 
cheeks  as  he  looked  at  her ;  and  she  called  past 
him,  until  some  women  came  and  led  him  away 
and  tried  to  comfort  him,  telling  him  how  it  was 
with  her,  and  that  she  would  soon  know  him 
when  he  looked  more  like  himself. 

But  the  summer  wore  away  and  she  did  not 
know  him,  although  he  constantly  followed  her 
beseechingly.  His  elders  even  reproved  him  for 
paying  so  little  heed  to  his  work  in  the  colony. 
"  It  is  not  meet  for  a  young  man  to  be  so  weaned 
from  usefulness  by  grief  for  a  maid,"  said  they. 
But  David  Walcott  would  at  any  time  leave  his 
reaping-hook  in  the  corn  and  his  axe  in  the  tree, 
leave  aught  but  his  post  as  sentry,  when  he  heard 
Silence  calling  him  over  the  north  meadow.  He 
would  stand  at  her  elbow  and  say,  in  his  voice 
that  broke  like  a  woman's :  "Here  I  am,  sweet 
heart,  at  thy  side.  I  pray  thee  turn  thy  head/' 
But  she  would  not  let  her  eyes  rest  upon  him 
for  more  than  a  second's  space,  turning  them 
ever  past  him  towards  Canada,  and  calling  in  his 
very  ears  with  a  sad  longing  that  tore  his  heart : 
"  David  !  David  !  David  !"  It  was  as  if  her 
mind,  reaching  out  always  and  speeding  fast  in 
search  of  him,  had  gotten  such  impetus  that  she 
passed  the  very  object  of  her  search  and  knew  it 
not. 

Now  and  then  would  David  Walcott  grow  des- 
48 


SILENCE 

perate,  fling  his  arms  around  her,  and  kiss  her 
upon  her  cold  delicate  lips  and  cheeks  as  if  he 
would  make  her  recognize  him  by  force  ;  but  she 
would  free  herself  from  him  with  a  passionless 
resentment  that  left  him  helpless. 

One  day  in  autumn,  when  the  borders  of  the 
Deerfield  meadows  were  a  smoky  purple  with 
wild  asters,  and  golden -rods  flashed  out  like 
golden  flames  in  the  midst  of  them,  David  Wal- 
cott  had  been  pleading  vainly  with  Silence  as  she 
stood  calling  on  the  north  terrace.  Suddenly  he 
turned  and  rushed  away,  and  his  face  was  all  con 
vulsed  like  a  weeping  child's.  As  he  came  out 
of  the  thicket  he  met  the  old  woman  Goody 
Crane,  and  would  fain  have  hidden  his  face  from 
her,  but  she  stopped  him. 

"  Prithee  stop  a  moment's  space,  Master  David 
Walcott,"  said  she. 

"What  would  you?"  David  cried  out  in  a 
surly  tone,  and  he  dashed  the  back  of  his  hand 
across  his  eyes. 

"'Tis  full  moon  to-night,"  said  the  old  wom 
an,  in  a  whisper.  "Come  out  here  to-night 
when  the  moon  shall  be  an  hour  high,  and  I 
promise  ye  she  shall  know  ye." 

The  young  man  stared  at  her. 

"  I  tell  ye  Mistress  Silence  Hoit  shall  know  ye 
to-night,"  repeated  the  old  woman.     Her  voice  ,. 
sounded  hollow  in  the  depths  of  her  great  hood,v 
which  she  donned  early  in  the  fall.     Her  eyes  in 
D  49 


SILENCE 

the  gloom  of  it  gleamed  with  a  small  dark  bright 
ness. 

"HI  have  no  witch-work  tried  on  her,"  said 
David,  roughly. 

"I'll  try  no  witch-work  but  mine  own  wits/' 
said  Goody  Crane.  "  If  they  would  hang  me  for 
a  witch  for  that,  then  they  may.  None  but  I 
can  cure  her.  I  tell  ye,  come  out  here  to-night 
when  the  moon  is  an  hour  high ;  and  mind  ye 
wear  a  white  sheep's  fleece  over  your  shoul 
ders.  I'll  harm  her  not  so  much  with  my  witch- 
work  as  ye'll  do  with  your  love,  for  all  your 
prating." 

The  old  woman  pushed  past  him  to  where  Si 
lence  stood  calling,  and  waited  there,  standing 
in  the  shadow  cast  by  the  wild  cherry-tree  until 
she  ceased  and  turned  away.  Then  she  caught 
hold  of  the  skirt  of  her  gown,  and  David  stood, 
hidden  by  the  thicket,  listening. 

"  I  prithee,  Mistress  Silence  Hoit,  listen  but  a 
moment/'  said  Goody  Crane. 

Silence  paused,  and  smiled  at  her  gently  and 
wearily. 

"  Give  me  your  hand/'  demanded  the  old 
woman. 

And  Silence  held  out  her  hand,  flashing  white 
in  the  green  gloom,  as  if  she  cared  not. 

The  old  woman  turned  the  palm,  bending  her 
hooded  head  low  over  it.  "  He  draweth  near  !" 
she  cried  out  suddenly  ;  "he  draweth  near,  with 
50 


SILENCE 

a  white  sheep's  fleece  over  his  shoulders  !  He 
cometh  through  the  woods  from  Canada.  He 
will  cross  the  meadow  when  the  moon  is  an  hour 
high  to-night.  He  will  wear  a  white  sheep's 
fleece  over  his  shoulders,  and  ye'll  know  him  by 
that." 

Silence's  wandering  eyes  fastened  upon  her 
face. 

The  old  woman  caught  hold  of  her  shoulders 
and  shook  her  to  and  fro.  "  David  !  David  ! 
David  Walcott !"  she  screamed.  "  David  Wal- 
cott  with  a  white  sheep's  fleece  on  his  hack  !  On 
the  meadow  !  To-night  when  the  moon's  an 
hour  high  !  Be  ye  out  here  to-night,  Silence 
Iloit,  if  ye'd  see  him  a-coming  down  from  the 
north  !" 

Silence  gasped  faintly  when  the  old  woman  re 
leased  her  and  went  muttering  away.  Presently 
she  crept  home,  and  sat  down  with  her  knitting- 
work  in  the  chimney-place. 

When  Eunice  Bishop  hung  on  the  porridge- 
kettle,  Goody  Crane  lifted  the  latch-string  and 
came  in.  It  was  growing  dusky,  but  the  moon 
would  not  rise  for  an  hour  yet.  Goody  Crane 
sat  opposite  Silence,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
her,  and  Silence,  in  spite  of  herself,  kept  look 
ing  at  her.  A  gold  brooch  at  the  old  woman's 
throat  glittered  in  the  firelight,  and  that  seemed 
to  catch  Silence's  eyes.  She  finally  knitted  with 
them  fixed  upon  it. 

51 


SILENCE 

She  scarcely  took  her  eyes  away  when  she  ate 
her  supper ;  then  she  sat  down  to  her  knitting 
and  knitted,  and  gazed,  in  spite  of  herself,  at 
the  gold  spot  on  the  old  woman's  throat. 

The  moon  arose  ;  the  tree  branches  before  the 
windows  tossed  half  in  silver  light ;  the  air  was 
shrill  with  crickets.  Silence  stirred  uneasily, 
and  dropped  stitches  in  her  knitting-work.  "He 
draweth  near,"  muttered  Goody  Crane,  and  Si 
lence  quivered. 

The  moon  was  a  half-hour  high.  "Widow 
Bishop  was  spinning,  Widow  Spear  was  winding 
quills,  and  Silence  knitted.  "  He  draweth  near," 
muttered  Goody  Crane. 

"  Fll  have  no  witchcraft !"  Silence  cried  out, 
suddenly  and  sharply.  Her  aunt  stopped  spin 
ning,  and  Widow  Spear  started. 

"  What's  that  ?"  said  her  aunt.  But  Silence 
was  knitting  again. 

"  What  meant  you  by  that  ?"  asked  her  aunt, 
sharply. 

"  I  have  dropped  a  stitch,"  said  Silence. 

Her  aunt  spun  again,  with  occasional  wary 
glances.  The  moon  was  three  -  quarters  of  an 
hour  high.  Silence  gazed  steadily  at  the  gold 
brooch  at  Goody  Crane's  throat. 

"  The  moon  is  near  an  hour  high  ;  you  had 
best  be  going,"  said  the  old  woman,  in  a  low 
monotone. 

Silence  arose  directly. 
52 


SILENCE 

"  Where  go  yon  at  this  time  of  night  ?"  grum 
bled  her  aunt.  But  Silence  glided  past  her. 

"  You'll  lose  your  good  name  as  well  as  your 
wits/'  cried  Eunice.  But  she  did  not  try  to 
stop  Silence,  for  she  knew  it  was  useless. 

"  A  white  sheep's  fleece  over  his  shoulders," 
muttered  Goody  Crane  as  Silence  went  out  of 
the  door  ;  and  the  other  women  marvelled  what 
she  meant. 

Silence  Hoit  went  swiftly  and  softly  down 
Deerfield  street  to  her  old  haunt  on  the  north 
meadow  terrace.  She  pushed  in  among  the  wild 
cherry-trees,  which  waved,  white  with  the  moon 
light,  like  ghostly  arms  in  her  face.  Then  she 
called,  setting  her  face  towards  Canada  and  the 
north  :  "  David  !  David  !  David  !"  But  her 
voice  had  a  different  tone  in  it,  and  it  broke 
with  her  heart-beats. 

David  Walcott  came  slowly  across  the  meadow 
below  ;  a  white  fleece  of  a  sheep  thrown  over  his 
back  caught  the  moonlight.  He  came  on,  and 
on,  and  on  ;  then  he  went  up  the  terrace  to  Si 
lence.  Her  face,  white  like  a  white  flower  in 
the  moonlight,  shone  out  suddenly  close  before 
him.  He  waited  a  second,  then  he  spoke.  "  Si 
lence  !"  he  said. 

Then  Silence  gave  a  great  cry,  and  threw  her 
^rms  around  his  neck,  and  pressed  softly  and 
wildly  against  him  with  her  wet  cheek  to  his. 

"  Know  you  who  'tis,  sweetheart  ?" 
53 


SILENCE 

"  Oh,  David,  David  !" 

The  trees  arched  like  arbors  with  the  weight 
of  the  wild  grapes,  which  made  the  air  sweet ; 
the  night  insects  called  from  the  bnshes  ;  Deer- 
field  village  and  the  whole  valley  lay  in  the 
moonlight  like  a  landscape  of  silver.  The  lovers 
stood  in  each  other's  arms,  Emotionless,  and  seem 
ingly  fixed  as  the  NewVEngland  flora  around 
them,  as  if  they  too  might  reappear  hundreds  of 
spring-times  hence,  with  their  loves  as  fairly  in 
blossom. 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 


THE  dark  slate  stones  that  now  slant  to  their 
falls  in  the  old  burying-gronnd,  or  are  fallen  al 
ready,  then  stood  straight.  The  old  inscriptions, 
now  blurred  over  by  moss  and  lichen,  or  worn 
back  into  the  face  of  the  stone  by  the  wash  of 
the  heavy  coast  rains,  were  then  quite  plain. 
The  winged  cherubim  and  death-heads — the  ter 
rible  religious  symbols  of  the  Old  Testament, 
made  realistic  by  New  England  minds  under 
stress  of  grief — were  quite  fresh  from  the  artist's 
hands. 

The  funeral  urns  and  weeping-willows,  a  very 
art  of  sorrow  in  themselves,  with  their  every 
curve  the  droop  of  a  mourner's  head,  and  all 
their  flowing  lines  of  tears,  were  still  distinct. 
Indeed,  the  man  who  had  graven  many  of  them 
was  still  alive,  and  not  yet  past  his  gloomy  toil. 
He  lived  in  his  little  house  not  far  beyond  the 
burying  -  ground,  and  his  name  was  Ichabod 
Buckley.  He  had  a  wife  Sarah,  a  son  Ichabod, 
and  three  daughters,  Submit,  Kebecca,  and  Per- 
55 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

sis.  When  Persis  was  twelve  years  old  a  great 
change  and  a  romance  came  into  her  life.  She 
was  the  youngest  of  the  family  ;  her  brother  was 
ten  years  older  than  she ;  her  sisters  were  older 
still.  She  had  always  been  to  a  certain  extent 
petted  and  favored  from  her  babyhood ;  however, 
until  she  was  twelve,  she  had  not  been  exempt 
from  her  own  little  duties  and  privations.  She 
had  gathered  drift-wood  on  the  shore,  her  deli 
cate  little  figure  buffeted  and  shaken  by  rough 
winds.  She  had  dug  quahaugs,  wading  out  in 
the  black  mud,  with  her  petticoats  kilted  high 
over  her  slender  childish  legs.  She  had  spun 
her  daily  stint,  and  knitted  faithfully  harsh 
blue  yarn  socks  for  her  father  and  brother.  In 
the  early  autumn,  when  she  was  twelve  years 
old,  all  that  was  changed. 

One  morning  in  September  it  was  hot  inland, 
but  cool  on  the  point  of  land  reaching  out  into 
the  sea  where  the  Buckley  house  stood.  The 
son,  Ichabod,  had  gone  to  sea  in  a  whaling- 
vessel  ;  the  father  was  at  home,  working  in  the 
little  slanting  shed  behind  the  house.  One 
could  hear  the  grating  slide  of  his  chisel  down 
the  boughs  of  a  weeping-willow  on  a  new  grave 
stone.  A  very  old  woman  of  the  village  had 
died  that  week. 

At  the  left  of  the  house  there  was  a  bright  un 
expected  glint  from  a  great  brass  kettle  which 
the  eastern  sun  struck.  Ichabod  Buckley's  wife 
56 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

had  her  dye-kettle  out  there  on  forked  sticks 
over  a  fire.  She  was  dyeing  some  cloth  an  in 
digo-blue,  and  her  two  elder  daughters  were 
helping  her.  The  two  daughters  Submit  and 
Rebecca  looked  like  their  mother.  The  three, 
from  their  figures,  seemed  about  of  an  age — all 
tall  and  meagre  and  long -limbed,  moving  in 
their  scanty  petticoats  around  the  kettle  with  a 
certain  dry  pliability,  like  three  tall  brown  weeds 
on  the  windy  marsh. 

Persis  came  up  from  the  shore  at  the  front  of 
the  house  with  her  arms  full  of  drift-wood.  She 
was  just  crossing  the  front  yard  when  she  heard 
a  sound  that  startled  her,  and  she  stood  still  and 
listened,  inclining  her  head  towards  the  woods  on 
the  right.  In  the  midst  of  these  woods  was  the 
cleared  space  of  the  graveyard  ;  the  rough  path 
to  the  main  road  ran  past  it. 

Seldom  any  but  horseback  riders  came  that 
way  ;  but  now  Persis  was  sure  that  she  heard  the 
rumble  of  carriage-wheels,  as  well  as  the  tramp 
of  horses'  feet.  She  turned  excitedly  to  run  to 
her  mother  and  sisters  ;  but  all  at  once  the 
splendid  coach  and  four  emerged  with  a  great 
flourish  on  the  open  space  before  the  house,  and 
she  stood  still. 

The  short  coarse  grass  in  the  yard  had  gotten 

a  perpetual  slant  from  the  wind.     Just  now  it 

was    still,    but   that  low  bending   sweep  of   the 

grass  towards  the  west  made  it  seem  as  if  the 

57 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

wind  were  transfixed  there.  Persis  stood  in  the 
midst  of  this  still  show  of  wind,  her  slender 
childish  figure  slanting  a  little  also.  All  her 
fair  hair  was  tucked  away  tidily  beneath  a  little 
blue  hood  tied  under  her  chin.  The  oval  of  her 
face  showed  like  the  oval  of  a  pearl  in  this  circle 
of  blue,  and  it  had  a  beauty  that  could  draw  the 
thoughts  of  people  away  from  their  own  hearts. 
Even  the  folk  of  this  old  New  England  village, 
who  had  in  their  stern  doctrines  no  value  for  a 
fair  face,  turned  for  a  second,  as  if  by  some  com 
pelling  gleam  of  light  under  their  eyelids,  when 
this  little  Buckley  maid  entered  the  meeting 
house;  and  her  mother  and  sisters,  although 
they  saw  her  every  day,  would  stop  sometimes 
their  work  or  speech  when  her  face  came  sud 
denly  before  their  eyes. 

Persis  had  her  little  looking-glass.  She  looked 
in  it  when  she  had  washed  her  face  to  see  if  it 
were  clean,  and  when  she  braided  her  hair  to  see 
if  it  were  smooth.  Sometimes  she  paused,  her 
self,  and  eyed  her  face  with  innocent  wonder, 
but  she  did  not  know  its  value.  She  was  like  a 
child  with  a  precious  coin  which  had  its  equiva 
lent  in  goods  beyond  her  ken. 

To-day  Persis  had  no  idea  why  these  fine  stran 
gers  in  the  grand  coach  sat  still  with  their  eyes 
riveted  upon  her  face. 

She  stood  there  in  the  windy  grass,  in  her  lit 
tle  straight  blue  gown,  clasping  her  bundle  of 
58 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

drift-wood  to  her  breast,  and  stared,  turning  her 
back  altogether  upon  her  own  self,  at  the  coach 
and  the  trappings,  and  the  black  coachman  in 
his  livery,  with  his  head  like  a  mop  of  black 
sheep's  wool,  and  his  white  rolling  eyes,  which 
half  frightened'  her.  She  looked  a  little  more 
curiously  at  this  black  coachman  than  at  the 
gentleman  and  lady  in  the  coach,  although  they 
were  grand  enough  ;  and,  moreover,  the  gentle 
man  was  very  handsome,  and  not  old.  He 
thrust  his  fair  head,  which  had  a  slight  silvery 
sheen  of  powder,  out  of  the  coach  window,  and 
die  pale  old  face  and  velvet  hood  of  the  lady 
showed  over  his  shoulder,  and  they  both  stared 
at  Persists  face. 

Then  the  gentleman  spoke,  and  Persis  started, 
and  blushed,  and  dropped  a  courtesy.  She  had 
forgotten  that  until  now,  and  felt  overcome  with 
shame.  "  Good-day,  my  pretty  maid,"  said  the 
gentleman  ;  and  as  he  spoke  he  stepped  out  of 
the  coach  and  approached  Persis.  She  saw, 
with  half-dazzled  eyes,  his  grand  fair  head,  his 
queue  tied  with  a  blue  silk  ribbon,  his  jewelled 
knee-buckles  and  silk  hose,  his  flowered  waist 
coat,  and  the  deep  falls  of  lace  over  his  long 
white  hands.  No  such  fine  gentleman  as  this 
had  ever  come  within  her  vision.  She  cour- 
tesied  again,  and  looked  up  in  his  face  when  he 
reached  her.  Then  she  looked  down  again 
quickly,  and  the  strange  salt  savor  of  the  drift- 
59 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

wood,  overpowering  a  sweet  perfume  about  the 
stranger's  rich  attire,  came  up  in  her  blushing 
face.  The  gentleman  looked  very  kind,  and  his 
eyes  were  very  gay  and  blue,  yet  somehow  she 
was  frightened  and  abashed.  It  was  as  if  he 
saw  something  within  herself  of  which  she  had 
not  dreamed,  and  suddenly  forced  her  to  see  it 
also,  to  her  own  confusion. 

The  gentleman  laughed  softly  when  she  looked 
down.  "Is  it  the  first  time  you  have  had  an 
other  pair  of  eyes  for  your  looking-glass,  little 
maid  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  kind  of  mocking  caress 
in  his  tone. 

Persis  did  not  lift  her  eyes  from  the  drift 
wood.  She  blushed  more  deeply,  and  her  sweet 
mouth  trembled. 

' '  Nay,  tease  not  the  child.  Ask  if  her  father 
be  in  the  house/'  called  the  lady's  soft  voice, 
with  a  little  impatient  ring  in  it,  from  the 
coach. 

"'Tis  but  the  fault  of  my  eyes,  your  lady 
ship,"  retorted  the  gentleman,  gayly.  "They  ! 
are  ever  as  lakes  reflecting  flowers  in  the  pres 
ence  of  beauty,  and  I  doubt  much  if  this  little 
maid  hath  ever  seen  herself  so  clearly  before — if 
eyes  like  mine  have  come  in  her  way/' 

Persis's  mouth  quivered  more.     She  wanted  to 
run  away,  and  did  not  dare  ;  but  suddenly  the 
gentleman  spoke  again,  quite  gravely  and  cold 
ly,  and  all  the  gay  banter  in  his  voice  was  gone. 
60 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

"  Is  your  father,  Ichabod  Buckley,  within,  my 
good  maid  ?"  he  said. 

Persis  felt  as  if  a  spell  which  had  been  cast 
over  her  were  broken.  She  dropped  a  courtesy. 

"Please,  sir,  my  father  is  yonder,  cutting  a 
weeping-willow  on  old  Widow  Nye's  gravestone," 
she  replied,  pointing  towards  the  rear  of  the 
house  ;  and  she  spoke  with  that  punctilious 
courtesy  with  which  she  had  been  taught  to  ad 
dress  strangers. 

"  Will  you  bid  him  come  this  way  ?  I  would 
speak  with  him/'  said  the  gentleman. 

"  And  bid  him  hasten,  for  this  air  from  the 
sea  is  full  cold  for  me  !"  called  the  lady  from 
the  coach. 

Persis  dipped  another  affirmative  courtesy  tow 
ards  her,  then  fled  swiftly  around  the  corner  of 
the  house.  She  met  her  mother  and  her  sister 
Submit  face  to  face,  with  a  shock.  They  had 
been  peeping  around  the  corner  at  the  grand 
folk.  Rebecca  had  run  into  the  house  to  put  on 
her  shoes  and  a  clean  kerchief,  in  case  one  of  the 
elder  women  had  to  go  forward  to  speak  to  them. 

"Father!  the  gentleman  wants  father,"  said 
Persis,  with  soft  pants.  "  Oh,  mother  !" 

Her  mother  caught  her  arm  with  a  jerk. 
"  AVho  be  they  ?"  she  hissed  in  her  ear. 

"I — don't  know — such — grand  folks,  and — 
the  coach  and  the  four,  and  the  black  man — oh, 
mother  !" 

61 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

"  Go  bid  your  father  come  quick." 

Sarah  Buckley  gave  her  daughter  a  push,  and 
Persis  flew  on  towards  the  shed  where  her  father 
kept  his  stock  of  gravestones  and  worked.  But 
Rebecca  had  already  given  him  the  alarm,  and 
he  was  at  the  well  washing  the  slate  dust  from 
his  hands. 

"  Go  quick,  father  ;  they  want  you  !"  panted 
Persis. 

"  Who  be  they  ?"  queried  Ichabod  Buckley. 
His  voice  was  as  nervous  as  a  woman's,  and  he 
was  small  and  delicately  made  like  one.  He 
shook  the  water  from  his  small  hands,  his  fingers 
twitching.  The  muscles  on  the  backs  glanced 
under  the  thin  brown  skin ;  the  muscles  on  his 
temples  and  neck  glanced  also.  Ichabod  Buck 
ley  had,  when  nervously  excited,  a  look  as  if  his 
whole  body  were  based  on  a  system  of  brown 
wires. 

Persis  danced  up  and  down  before  him,  as  if 
his  nervous  excitement  communicated  itself  to 
her.  "  I  know  not  who  they  be,"  she  panted  ; 
"  but,  oh,  father,  they  be  such  grand  folk  I" 

When  Ichabod  Buckley,  striving  to  pace  with 
solemn  dignity,  as  befitted  his  profession,  but 
breaking,  in  spite  of  himself,  into  nervous  runs, 
went  around  to  the  front  of  the  house,  Persis 
slunk  at  his  heels,  but  her  mother  arrested  her 
at  the  corner.  "  Stay  where  you  be,  and  not  go 
out  there  staring  at  the  gentle-folk  like  a  bold 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

hnssy  !"  she  ordered.  So  Persis  stayed,  peeping 
around  the  corner  with  her  mother  and  Submit ; 
and  presently  Rebecca  in  her  shoes,,  with  her 
kerchief  pinned  over  her  lean  bosom,,  joined 
them. 

Once  Persis,  advancing  her  beautiful  face  a 
little  farther  around  the  corner,  caught  the 
gentleman's  gay  blue  eyes  full  upon  her,  and  she 
drew  back  with  a  great  start  and  a  blush. 

Listen  as  they  might,  the  women  could  not 
catch  one  word  of  Ichabod  Buckley's  and  the 
gentleman's  discourse — they  stood  too  far  away. 
But  presently  they  saw  the  black  coachman  turn 
the  coach  and  four  around  with  a  wide  careful 
sweep,  and  then  the  gentleman  got  in  beside  the 
lady,  and  Ichabod  beside  the  coachman,  and 
then  the  horses  leaped  forward,  and  the  whole 
was  out  of  sight  behind  the  spray  of  pine  woods. 

Ichabod  Buckley  was  gone  about  three-quar 
ters  of  an  hour.  When  he  returned  he  at  once 
told  his  curious  women -folks  somewhat  that 
had  passed,  but  his  face  was  locked  over  more. 
"  You  have  not  told  us  all,"  said  his  wife,  sharp 
ly.  "It  may  well  be,  as  you  say,  that  the  gentle 
folk  wished  to  find  the  grave  of  the  man  who 
was  their  kin,  and  died  here  in  the  first  of  the 
town,  but  that  is  not  all." 

"  I  pointed  out  the  grave  to  them  beyond  a 
question/'  said  Ichabod,  ' '  though  there  was  no 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

stone  to  it.  I  knew  it  well  from  hearsay.  And 
I  am  to  make  at  once  a  fine  stone,  with  a  round 
top  and  a  winged  head,  and  here  is  the  pay  al 
ready." 

Ichabod  jingled  for  the  dozenth  time  a  gold 
coin  and  some  small  silver  ones  in  his  nervous 
hand,  and  his  wife  frowned. 

"  You  have  told  us  all  this  before,"  said  she. 
"  There  is  something  else  that  you  keep  back." 

Ichabod  was  smiling  importantly,  he  could 
not  control  his  mouth ;  but  he  went  back  with 
out  another  word  to  old  "Widow  Nye's  grave 
stone,  and  the  weeping  -  willow  thereon  grew 
apace  under  his  hands. 

However,  he  could  not  keep  anything  to  him 
self  long,  least  of  all  from  his  wife,  with  her  im 
perative  curiosity.  After  dinner  that  noon  he 
beckoned  her  into  the  front  room. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?"  she  said.  "  I 
have  the  work  to  do."  She  felt  that  his  previous 
silence  demanded  some  show  of  dignity  upon 
her  part. 

Ichabod  glanced  at  his  staring  daughters,  and 
beckoned  beseechingly. 

"  Well,  I  can't  waste  much  time,"  said  Sarah  ; 
but  she  followed  him  eagerly  into  the  front 
room.  They  were  shut  in  there  some  time. 
The  daughters,  tidying  up  the  kitchen,  could 
hear  the  low  murmur  of  their  parents'  voices, 
but  that  was  all.  Persis  was  polishing  th$ 
64 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

brasses  on  the  hearth  —  the  andirons  and  the 
knobs  on  the  shovel  and  tongs.  That  was  al 
ways  her  task.  It  roughened  her  small  hands, 
but  nobody  ever  minded  that.  To-day,  as  she 
was  scouring  away  sturdily,  her  mother  came 
suddenly  out  of  the  front  room  and  caught  her 
plying  arm. 

"  There  1"  said  she  ;  "you  need  do  no  more  of 
this.  'Twill  get  your  hands  all  out  of  shape, 
and  make  them  rough.  They  are  too  small  for 
such  work.  Submit,  come  here  and  finish 
scouring  the  brasses." 

Persis  looked  up  at  her  mother  and  then  at 
her  little  red  grimy  hands  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"  Go  and  wash  your  hands,  and  then  rub 
some  Injun  meal  on  them,  and  see  if  it  will  not 
make  them  a  little  softer,"  ordered  her  mother. 
"  Submit,  make  haste/' 

Submit,  although  she  was  herself  puzzled,  and 
might  well  have  been  resentful,  knelt  obedient 
ly  down  on  the  hearth,  and  fell  to  work  on 
the  brasses,  rubbing  vigorously  with  salt  and 
vinegar. 

Persis  washed  her  hands  as  her  mother  bade 
her,  and  afterwards  rubbed  on  some  Indian  meal. 
Then  she  was  ordered  to  put  on  her  pink-flowered 
chintz  gown,  and  sit  down  in  the  front  room 
with  her  sampler.  Her  mother  braided  her  fair 
hair  for  her  in  two  tight  smooth  braids,  and 
crossed  them  neatly  at  the  back.  She  even  put 
E  65 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

her  own  beautiful  high  tortoise-shell  comb  in 
her  daughter's  head. 

"You  may  wear  it  a  spell  if  you  want  to," 
said  she. 

Persis  smiled  delightedly.  Her  chief  worldly 
ambition  had  been  to  wear  a  shell  comb  like  her 
mother's. 

The  window  was  open.  She  could  hear  faintly 
the  rasp  of  her  father's  chisel  upon  the  boughs 
of  old  Widow  Nye's  weeping-willow.  She  could 
hear  the  voices  of  her  mother  and  sisters,  who 
had  gone  back  to  their  work  over  the  dye-kettle. 
After  a  while  she  saw  Submit  going  down  to  the 
shore  for  more  drift-wood.  "  That  is  my  work," 
she  thought  to  herself  with  wonder.  She  could 
not  understand  her  mother's  treatment  of  her. 
It  was  very  pleasant  and  grand  to  be  sitting  in 
state  in  the  best  room,  with  the  tortoise-shell 
comb  in  her  hair,  working  her  sampler,  and  be 
rid  of  all  ruder  toil,  yet  she  finally  grew  uneasy. 

She  laid  down  her  sampler,  and  pulled  open 
the  front  door,  which  was  seldom  used,  and 
hard  to  move,  being  swollen  with  the  sea  damp 
ness.  Then  she  stole  around  the  house  towards 
the  group  at  the  dye -kettle.  She  felt  scared 
and  uncertain  without  knowing  why.  Her 
mother  called  out  sharply  when  she  caught 
sight  of  her,  and  waved  her  back.  "  Can't  I  go 
down  for  more  drift-wood  ?"  pleaded  Persis, 
timidly. 

66 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

"  Back  into  the  house  !"  ordered  L  mother, 
speaking  against  the  wind,  which  was  LOW  blow 
ing  hard.  "  Back  with  ye  !  Out  here  in  this 
wind  !  Would  you  be  as  black  as  an  Injun  ? 
Go  back  to  your  sampler  I" 

Persis  crept  back,  bewiMered.  The  other  two 
daughters  looked  at  each  other.  Then  Rebecca 
spoke  out  boldly. 

"  Mother,  what  is  all  this  ?"  said  she. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  know  sometime,"  replied 
Sarah  Buckley,  smiling  mysteriously,  and  she 
would  say  no  more. 

Persis  continued  to  sit  at  the  front-room  win 
dow  with  her  sampler  in  her  hands.  She  cross- 
stitched  a  letter  forlornly  and  laboriously,  with 
frequent  glances  out  at  the  rosy  wind  -  swept 
marshes  and  the  blue  dazzle  of  sea  beyond.  She 
never  dreamed  of  disputing  her  mother's  wishes 
further.  Persis  Buckley,  although  full  of  nerv 
ous  force,  had  also  a  strange  docility  of  char 
acter.  She  stitched  on  her  sampler  all  the 
afternoon.  When  it  came  time  to  prepare  sup 
per,  her  mother  would  not  even  then  let  her  out 
in  the  kitchen  to  help,  as  was  her  wont.  "  Stay 
where  you  be,"  said  she,  when  Persis  appeared 
on  the  threshold.  And  the  little  maid  remained 
in  her  solitary  state  until  the  meal  was  ready, 
and  she  was  bidden  forth  to  it.  There  was  a, 
little  sweet  cake  beside  her  plate  on  the  table, 
one  of  those  which  her  mother  kept  in  a  stone 
67 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

jar  for  company.  Nobody  else  had  one.  Persis 
looked  at  it  doubtfully  when  she  had  finished 
her  bread.  "  Eat  it/'  said  her  mother,  and  Per 
sis  ate  it,  but  it  tasted  strange  to  her.  She  won 
dered  if  her  mother  had  put  anything  different 
in  the  sweet  cake. 

Persis  had  lately  sat  up  until  the  nine-o'clock 
bell  rang,  knitting  or  paring  sweet  apples  to  dry, 
but  now  her  mother  sent  her  off  to  bed  at  half 
past  seven. 

"  Can't  I  sit  up  and  help  Submit  and  Rebecca 
pare  apples  ?"  she  begged,  but  her  mother  was 
inexorable. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  have  your  hands  spoilt 
with  apple  juice,"  said  she.  "Besides,  if  you 
go  to  bed  early  'twill  make  you  grow  faster  and 
keep  your  cheeks  red."  There  was  an  unusual 
softness  in  Sarah  Buckley's  voice,  and  she  colored 
and  smiled  foolishly,  as  if  she  were  ashamed  of  it. 

Ichabod  Buckley  sat  on  the  hearth  whittling 
chips  with  lightning  jerks  of  his  clasp-knife.  He 
did  everything  swiftly.  "Do  as  your  mother 
bids  you,"  he  said  to  Persis.  He  chuckled 
nervously,  and  looked  meaningly  at  his  wife. 

Persis  went  laggingly  out  of  the  room. 

"  Stand  up  straight,"  ordered  her  mother. 
"  The  first  thing  you  know  you'll  be  all  bent 
over  like  an  old  woman." 

Persis  threw  back  her  weak  girlish  shoulders 
until  her  slender  back  hollowed,.  She  had  been 
68 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

trained  to  obedient.  She  clattered  slowly  up 
the  stairs  in  her  little  heavy  shoes,  still  trying 
to  keep  her  shoulders  back,  when  her  mother 
called  again. 

"  Come  back  here,  Persis,"  called  her  mother, 
and  Persis  returned  to  the  kitchen.  "Sit  down 
here,"  said  her  mother,  pointing  to  a  chair,  and 
Persis  sat  down.  She  did  not  ask  any  questions  ; 
she  felt  a  curious  terror  and  intimidation.  She 
waited,  sitting  meekly  with  her  eyes  cast  down. 
She  heard  the  snip  of  shears  and  the  rattle  of 
stiff  paper  at  her  back,  then  she  felt  a  sharp  tng 
at  her  hair.  She  winced  a  little. 

"  You  keep  still,"  said  her  mother  at  her 
back,  rolling  a  lock  of  hair  vigorously.  "I 
ain't  going  to  have  your  hair  as  straight  as  a 
broom  if  I  can  help  it." 

When  Persis  went  to  bed  her  head  was  covered 
with  hard  papered  knots  of  hair,  all  straining 
painfully  at  the  roots.  When  she  laid  her  head 
uncomfortably  on  her  pillow,  she  remembered  in 
a  bewildered  way  how  her  mother  had  smoothed 
and  smoothed  and  smoothed  her  hair  in  former 
days,  and  how  she  had  said  many  a  time  that 
rough  and  frowsly  locks  were  not  modest  or  be 
coming.  Her  first  conviction  of  the  incon 
sistency  of  the  human  heart  was  upon  little 
Persis  Buckley,  and  she  was  dazed.  The  whole 
of  this  strange  experience  did  not  seem  real 
enough  to  last  until  the  next  day. 
69 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

But  the  days  went  on  and  on,  and  she  con 
tinued  to  live  a  life  as  widely  different  from  her 
old  one  as  if  she  had  been  translated  into  an 
other  world.  She  sat  at  the  front-room  window, 
with  her  beautiful  face  looking  out  meekly  from 
under  her  crown  of  curl-papers.  Her  mother 
had  a  theory  that  a  long  persistency  in  the  use 
of  the  papers  might  produce  a  lasting  curl,  and 
Persis  was  seldom  freed  from  them.  She  walked 
abroad  on  a  pleasant  day  at  a  genteel  pace,  with 
a  thick  black  embroidered  veil  over  her  face  to 
protect  her  complexion.  She  never  ran  bare 
foot,  and  even  her  thick  cowhide  shoes  were  dis 
carded.  She  wore  now  dainty  high-heeled  red 
morocco  shoes,  which  made  her  set  her  feet 
down  as  delicately  as  some  little  pink -footed 
pigeon.  All  her  coarse  home-spun  gowns  were 
laid  away  in  a  chest.  She  wore  now  fine  chintz 
or  soft  boughten  wool  of  a  week-day,  and  she 
even  had  a  gown  of  silken  stuff  and  a  fine  silk 
pelisse  for  Sabbath  days. 

Going  into  the  meeting-house  beside  her  sober 
ly  clad  parents  and  sisters,  she  looked  like  some 
gay-feathered  bird  which  had  somehow  gotten 
into  the  wrong  nest.  All  the  Buckley  family 
seemed  to  have  united  in  a  curious  reversed 
tyranny  towards  this  beautiful  child.  She  was 
set  up  as  a  queen  among  them,  whether  she 
would  or  no,  and  she  was  made  to  take  the  best 
in  their  lot,  whether  she  wanted  it  or  not. 
70 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

When  Persis  was  fourteen,  her  sister  Rebecca 
went  some  fifty  miles  away  to  keep  house  for  a 
widowed  uncle  and  take  care  of  his  family  of 
children.  She  was  not  needed  at  home,  and  in 
this  way  the  cost  of  her  support  was  saved  for 
Persis.  Submit  was  a  dull  woman,  and  hard 
work  was  making  her  duller.  She  broadened 
her  patient  back  for  her  own  and  her  sister's  bur 
dens  without  a  murmur,  and  became  a  contented 
drudge  that  Persis  might  sit  in  state  in  the  front 
room,  keeping  her  hands  soft  and  white. 

As  for  Persists  brother  Ichabod,  nearly  all  his 
savings  were  given  to  her,  but,  after  all,  not 
with  any  especial  self-denial.  This  beautiful 
young  sister  represented  all  the  faint  ambition 
in  his  life  ;  he  had  none  left  for  himself,  and 
nobody  had  tried  to  arouse  any.  lie  made  peril 
ous  voyages  on  a  whaling -ship  for  his  living. 
When  he  came  home,  with  his  face  browned  and 
stiffened  by  his  hard  fight  with  the  icy  winds  of 
the  North  Atlantic,  he  sat  down  by  the  fire  in 
his  father's  kitchen.  Then  he  chewed  tobacco, 
and  never  stirred  if  he  could  help  it  until  his 
next  voyage. 

At  thirty,  Ichabod  had  become  as  old  as  his 
father.  All  the  dreams  of  youth  had  gone  out 
of  him,  and  he  slumbered  in  the  present  like  a 
very  old  man.  Always  as  he  sat  chewing  by  the 
fire  his  face  wore  that  look  of  set  resistance,  as 
if  the  lash  of  the  North  Atlantic  wind  still 
71 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

threatened  it.  Ever  since  she  could  remember, 
Persis  Buckley  had  seen  her  brother  sit  there 
between  his  voyages,  a  dull  reflective  bulk  be 
fore  the  hearth,  like  some  figure-head  of  a 
stranded  whaler. 

The  morning  after  his  return  from  his  voyage, 
Persis,  passing  her  brother,  would  be  arrested  by 
an  inarticulate  command,  and  would  pause  while 
he  dragged  out  his  old  leather  bag,  heavy  with 
his  hard-earned  coins.  Then  Persis  would  hold 
up  her  apron  by  the  two  lower  corners,  and  he 
would  pour  in  a  goodly  portion  of  his  wealth, 
while  his  face  looked  more  smiling  and  animated 
than  she  ever  saw  it  at  any  other  time.  "  'Twill 
buy  you  something  as  good  as  anybody  when  you 
go  among  the  grand  folk,"  he  would  say,  with  a 
half-chuckle,  when  Persis  thanked  him. 

Sarah  Buckley  hid  away  all  this  money  for  Per 
sis  in  the  till  of  the  chest.  ' '  It  will  come  handy 
some  day,"  she  would  remark,  with  a  meaning 
smile.  This  fund  was  not  drawn  upon  for  the 
purchase  of  Persists  daily  needs  and  luxuries. 
Her  father's  earnings  and  her  mother's  thrift 
provided  them,  and  with  seemingly  little  stint. 
People  said  that  the  materials  for  Persis  Buck 
ley's  crewel-work  alone  cost  a  pretty  sum.  After 
she  had  finished  her  sampler  she  worked  a 
mourning-piece,  and  after  that  a  great  picture, 
all  in  cross-stitch,  which  was  held  to  be  a  marvel. 

Persis's  very  soul  flagged  over  the  house  and 
72 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

the  green  trees,,  the  river,  and  the  red  rose-bushes, 
and  the  bine  sky,  all  wronght  with  her  needle, 
stitch  by  stitch.  Once  in  the  depths  of  her  do 
cile  heart  a  sudden  wish,  which  seemed  as  for 
eign  to  her  as  an  impious  spirit,  leaped  up  that 
all  this  had  never  been  created,  since  she  was 
forced  to  reproduce  it  in  cross-stitch. 

"I  wish,"  said  Persis,  quite  out  loud  to  her 
self  when  she  was  all  alone  in  the  front  room — 
"  I  wish  the  trees  had  never  been  made,  nor  the 
roses,  nor  the  river,  nor  the  sky ;  then  I  shouldn't 
have  had  to  work  them."  Then  she  fairly  trem 
bled  at  her  wickedness,  and  counted  the  stitches 
in  a  corner  of  the  sky  with  renewed  zeal  and 
faithfulness. 

When  Persis  was  sixteen,  her  mother,  in  her 
anxiety  to  provide  her  with  accomplishments, 
went  a  step  beyond  all  previous  efforts,  and  a  piano 
was  bought  for  her.  It  was  the  very  first  piano 
which  had  ever  come  to  this  little  seaport  town. 
Ichabod  had  commissioned  a  sea-captain  to  pur 
chase  it  in  England. 

When  it  was  set  up  on  its  slender  fluted  legs 
in  the  Buckley  front  room,  all  the  people  came 
and  craved  permission  to  see  it,  and  viewed  its 
satiny  surface  and  inlaid-work  in  mother-of-pearl 
with  admiration  and  awe.  Then  they  went 
away,  and  discoursed  among  themselves  as  to 
the  folly  and  sinful  extravagance  of  Ichabod 
Buckley  and  his  wife. 

73 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

There  was  in  the  village  an  ancient  maiden 
lady  who  had  lived  in  Boston  in  her  youth,  and 
had  learned  to  play  several  tunes  on  the  harpsi 
chord.  These,  for  a  small  stipend,  she  imparted 
to  Persis.  They  were  simple  and  artless  melo 
dies,  and  Persis  had  a  ready  ear.  In  a  short  time 
she  had  learned  all  the  maiden  lady  knew.  She 
could  sing  three  old  songs,  innocently  imitating 
her  teacher's  quaver  with  her  sweet  young  voice, 
and  she  could  finger  out  quite  correctly  one 
battle  piece  and  two  jigs.  The  two  jigs  she 
played  very  slowly,  according  to  her  teacher's 
instructions.  Persis  herself  did  not  know  why, 
but  this  elderly  maiden  was  astute.  She  did  not 
wish  Ichabod  Buckley  and  his  family  to  be  tor 
mented  with  scruples  themselves,  neither  did 
she  wish  to  be  called  to  account  for  teaching 
light  and  worldly  tunes. 

"  Play  these  very  slowly,  my  dear,"  she  said. 
She  shook  the  two  bunches  of  gray  curls  which 
bobbed  outside  her  cap  over  her  thin  red  cheeks  ; 
her  old  blue  eyes  winked  with  a  light  which 
Persis  did  not  understand. 

"  Be  they  psalm  tunes  ?"  she  inquired,  inno 
cently. 

"  'Tis  according  to  the  way  you  play  them," 
replied  her  teacher,  evasively. 

And  Persis  never  knew,  nor  any  of  her  fam 
ily,  that  she  played  jigs.  However,  one  worldly 
amusement,  which  was  accounted  distinctly  sin- 
74 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

ful,  was  Persis  taught  with  the  direct  connivance 
of  her  parents. 

This  old  maiden  lady,  although  she  was  con 
stant  in  the  meeting-house  on  the  Sabbath  day, 
and  was  not  seen  to  move  a  muscle  of  dissent 
when  the  parson  proclaimed  the  endless  doom  of 
the  wicked,  had  Unitaiian  traditions,  and  her 
life  in  her  youth  had  been  more  gayly  and  broad 
ly  ordered  than  that  of  those  about  her.  It  had 
always  been  whispered  that  she  had  played 
cards,  and  had  even  danced,  in  days  gone  by. 
To  the  most  rigidly  sanctified  nostrils  there  was 
always  perceptible  a  faint  spiritual  odor  of  past 
frivolity  when  she  came  into  the  meeting-house, 
although  she  seemed  to  subscribe  faithfully  to 
all  the  orthodox  tenets.  The  parson  often  felt 
it  his  duty  to  call  upon  her,  and  enter  into 
wordy  expounding  of  the  truth,  and  tempt  her 
with  argument.  She  never  questioned  his  pre 
cepts,  and  never  argued,  yet  a  suspicion  as  to 
her  inmost  heresy  was  always  abroad,  llad  it 
not  been  so,  Sarah  Buckley  would  never  have 
dared  make  one  proposition  to  her  with  regard 
to  her  daughters  accomplishments. 

One  day  the  shutters  in  the  Buckley  front 
room  were  carefully  closed,  as  if  some  one  lay 
dead  therein  ;  the  candles  were  lighted,  and  this 
ancient  maiden  lady,  holding  with  both  hands 
her  petticoats  above  her  thin  ankles  in  their 
black  silk  hose,  taught  Persis  Buckley  some  dan- 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

cing  steps.  That,  nobody  in  the  village  ever 
knew.  All  the  parties  concerned  would  have 
been  brought  before  the  church  had  that  secret 
been  disclosed.  The  Buckleys  scarcely  dared 
mention  it  to  one  another. 

This  old  teacher  of  Persis  Buckley  had  still 
some  relatives  left  in  Boston,  and  now  and  then 
she  went  to  them  on  a  visit.  On  one  of  these 
occasions  Sarah  Buckley  commissioned  her  to 
purchase  some  books  for  Persis.  All  the  liter 
ature  in  the  Buckley  house  consisted  of  the 
Bible,  Watts's  Hymns,  and  Doddridge's  Rise  and 
Progress,  and  Sarah  fancied  that  another  book 
or  two  of  possibly  an  ornamental  and  decorative 
tendency  might  be  of  use  in  her  daughter's  edu 
cation. 

When  Mistress  Tabitha  Hopkins  returned 
from  Boston  she  brought  with  her  a  volume  of 
Young's  Night  Thoughts  and  one  of  Richard 
son's  Clarissa  Harlowe.  The  first  she  presented 
with  confidence,  the  second  with  some  excuses. 

"I  know  well  that  the  poetry  is  of  a  nature 
that  will  elevate  her  soul  and  tend  to  form  her 
mind,"  said  she,  "  and  I  have  myself  no  doubt 
as  to  the  other.  If  it  be  a  tale,  His  one  she  can 
read  to  her  profit,  and  the  pleasure  she  may  take 
in  it  may  lead  her  to  peruse  it  more  closely.  'Tis 
well  sometimes  to  season  hard  doctrines  with 
sugar  if  you  would  have  them  gulped  down  at 
all."  Mistress  Hopkins  made  a  wry  face,  as  if 
76 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

the  said  doctrines  were  even  then  like  bitter  pills 
in  her  mouth,  and  Sarah  Buckley  glanced  at 
her  suspiciously.  However,  she  took  the  books, 
and  paid  for  them  a  goodly  sum,  and  Persis  was 
henceforth  made  acquainted  with  the  lofty  ad 
monitions  to  Lorenzo  and  the  woes  of  the  un 
fortunate  and  virtuous  Clarissa. 

It  might  well  have  been  that  Tabitha  Hop- 
kins's  recommendation  of  the  story  of  poor 
Clarissa  Harlowe  and  her  desperate  experience  at 
the  hands  of  a  faithless  lover  had  its  object. 
Mistress  Tabitha  llopkins's  single  life  had  not 
predisposed  her  to  implicit  reliance  upon  the 
good  faith  or  the  motives  of  gay  gallants  who,  in 
the  course  of  some  little  trip  out  of  their  world, 
chanced  to  notice  a  beautiful  rustic  maiden. 
Everybody  in  the  village  knew  now  the  reason 
for  Ichabod  Buckley's  and  his  wife's  strange 
treatment  of  their  daughter  Persis.  They  knew 
that  the  grand  gentleman  who  had  come  to  town 
with  the  coach  and  four  had  seen  Persis,  and 
cried  out  at  her  beauty,  and  made  her  father 
give  his  promise  that  she  should  be  kept  for  him 
until  she  was  grown  up,  when  he  Avould  come 
over  seas  from  England  and  marry  her. 

Ichabod  had  vainly  tried  to  keep  this  secret, 
but  he  had  told  it  before  a  week  had  passed  to 
old  Thomas  Knapp,  who  was  helping  him  to  set 
Widow  Nye's  gravestone. 

Then  the  sun  had  not  set  before  the  news  was 
77 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

widely  spread.  Marvellous  tales  were  told  of 
this  gentleman  and  his  lady  mother,  who  had 
come  in  the  coach  with  him.  Persis,  when  she 
was  wedded,  would  dwell  in  marble  halls,  wear 
satin  an-:1  velvet  of  a  week-day,  and  eat  off  gold 
and  silver  dishes.  No  wonder  that  Ichabod 
Buckley  and  his  wife  Sarah  were  doing  their 
poor  best  to  fit  their  daughter  for  such  a  high 
estate  !  No  wonder  that  they  kept  her  all  day 
in  the  best  room  embroidering  and  reading 
poetry  and  playing  music  !  No  wonder  that 
they  never  let  her  walk  abroad  without  morocco 
shoes  and  a  veil  over  her  face  ! 

"  It  ain't  likely,"  said  old  man  Knapp,  "  that 
she'll  ever  have  any  call  to  so  much  as  dye  a 
hank  of  yarn  or  dip  a  candle  arter  she's  mar 
ried." 

Still,  although  people  acquiesced  in  the  wis 
dom  of  fitting  Persis  for  this  grand  station,  if 
there  were  any  prospect  of  her  reaching  it,  they 
were  mostly  incredulous  or  envious. 

The  incredulous  said  quite  openly  that  Icha 
bod  Buckley  always  did  hear  things  five  times  as 
big  as  they  were,  and  they  doubted  much  if  the 
grand  gentleman  ever  really  meant  to  or  said  he 
would  come  back  for  Persis.  The  envious  de 
clared  that  if  he  did  come  they  mistrusted  that  it 
would  not  be  for  any  good  and  honest  purpose,  for 
he  would  never  think  Persis  Buckley  his  equal, 
in  spite  of  all  her  fine  accomplishments  and  her 
T8 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

gaudy  attire.     And  her  face  might  by  that  time 
be  no  more  beautiful  than  some  others,  after  all. 

The  incredulous  moved  the  parson  to  preach 
many  a  discourse  upon  the  folly  of  worldly  am 
bition  and  trust  in  the  vain  promises  of  princes. 
The  envious  instigated  sermons  upon  the  sin  of 
any  other  ornament  or  accomplishment  than  a 
meek  and  quiet  spirit  for  the  daughters  of  Zion. 

Poor  little  Persis,  in  her  silken  attire,  lifting 
her  wonderful  face  to  the  parson,  never  dreamed 
that  the  discourse  was  directed  at  her  and  her 
parents,  but  Ichabod  and  Sarah  knew,  and  sat 
up  with  bristling  stiffness.  After  that  they 
withdrew  themselves  largely  from  intercourse 
with  their  neighbors.  They  felt  as  if  the  spirit 
ual  watch-dog  had  been  set  upon  them,  and  they 
were  justly  indignant.  Sarah  Buckley  had  al 
ways  been  given  to  staying  at  home  and  minding 
the  affairs  of  her  own  household ;  now  she  kept 
herself  more  close  than  ever.  Ichabod  was  by 
nature  sociable,  and  liked  to  fraternize  with  his 
kind  ;  but  now  almost  his  only  dealing  with 
people  outside  his  own  family  lay  in  his  work 
upon  their  gravestones. 

The  Buckleys  lived  by  themselves  in  their 
little  house  on  the  windy  land  past  the  grave 
yard,  following  out  their  own  end  in  life,  and  all 
the  time  were  under  a  subtle  spiritual  bombard 
ment  of  doubt  and  envy  and  disapproval  from 
their  neighbors  in  the  village. 
79 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

People  talked  much  about  Submit's  patient 
drudgery,  and  felt  for  her  the  resentment  which 
she  did  not  feel  for  herself.  "  It  is  a  shame  the 
way  they  make  that  poor  girl  do  all  the  work  to 
keep  her  sister  in  idleness  !"  said  they.  They 
began  to  call  Persis  in  derision  "  The  Buckley 
Lady." 

Poor  Persis  Buckley,  shut  out  of  the  free  air 
and  away  from  all  the  mates  of  her  youth,  was 
leading  the  life  of  a  forlorn  princess  in  a  fairy 
tale.  She  would  have  given  all  the  money  which 
her  brother  Ichabod  brought  her  for  his  privilege 
of  a  cruise  over  the  wild  seas.  Year  after  year 
she  waited  in  her  prison,  cast  about  and  bound, 
body  and  spirit,  by  the  will  and  ambition  of  her 
parents,  like  steel  cobwebs,  for  the  prince  who 
never  came. 

At  first  the  romance  of  it  all  had  appealed  to 
her  childish  imagination.  When  the  high  des 
tiny  which  awaited  her  had  been  disclosed,  her 
heart  leaped.  She  had  been  amused  and  pleased. 
She  liked  to  watch  out  for  that  grand  coach  and 
four.  When  she  remembered  the  gay  blue  flash 
of  that  grand  gentleman's  eyes  she  blushed,  and 
laughed  to  herself. 

But  after  a  while  all  that  failed.  She  did  not 
grow  incredulous,  for  she  had  a  simple  and  long- 
suffering  faith  in  her  parents,  but  quietly  and 
secretly  frightened  at  the  prospect  before  her. 
Poor  Persis  Buckley  sometimes  felt  herself  turn 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

fairly  cold  with  dread  at  the  thought  of  entering 
that  splendid  coach  and  driving  away  forever 
out  of  her  old  life  at  that  strange  gentleman's 
side.  He  became  to  her  as  cold  and  formless  as 
a  moving  column  of  mist  on  the  marsh,  and 
even  the  dreams  which  sprang  of  themselves  in 
her  girlish  heart  could  not  invest  him  with  love 
and  life  again. 

She  did  not  dare  confide  her  fears  to  her  moth 
er.  Sometimes  her  mother  filled  her  with  a 
vague  alarm.  Sarah  Buckley  in  ten  years  grew 
old,  and  the  eagerness  in  her  face  waxed  so 
bright  and  sharp  that  one  shrank  before  it  in 
voluntarily,  as  before  some  blinding  on-coming 
headlight  of  spirit. 

All  those  years  she  waited  and  watched  and 
listened  for  that  grand  coach  and  four  which 
would  bring  her  fortune  in  her  daughter's.  All 
the  ambition  of  her  earthly  life,  largely  balked 
for  herself,  had  centred  in  this.  Her  lot  in  the 
world  had  been  to  tread  out  a  ceaseless  round  of 
sordid  toil  in  her  poor  little  home  on  the  stormy 
coast,  but  her  beautiful  daughter  could  take  a 
flight  above  it,  and  something  of  herself  could 
follow  her. 

She  never  gave  up,  although  year  after  year 
she  watched  and  listened  in  vain  ;  but  finally  her 
body  failed  under  this  long  strain  of  the  spirit. 
When  Persis  was  twenty-three  her  mother  died, 
after  a  short  illness.  Then  Persis  found  her 
F  81 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

father  as  keen  a  guardian  as  her  mother  had  been. 
Sarah  had  given  him  her  farewell  charges,  and 
during  her  lifetime  had  imbued  his  nervous  re 
ceptive  nature  with  a  goodly  portion  of  her  own 
spirit. 

He  wrought  for  his  dead  wife  a  fine  tall  stone, 
and  set  thereon  a  verse  of  his  own  composition. 
Ichabod  Buckley  was  somewhat  of  a  poet,  pub 
lishing  himself  his  effusions  upon  his  gloomy 
stone  pages.  Then  he  fulfilled  his  own  and  her 
part  towards  their  daughter  Persis. 

Sarah  Buckley  had  been  dead  two  years,  and 
the  Buckley  Lady  was  twenty -five  years  old, 
sitting  at  her  window  in  the  front  room,  watch 
ing  for  the  prince  who  never  came. 

"  The  fine  gentleman  will  find  an  old  maid 
waiting  for  him  if  he  does  not  come  before 
long,"  people  said,  with  sniffs. 

But  Persis  had  really  grown  more  and  more 
beautiful.  Her  complexion,  although  she  had 
lived  so  much  within-doors,  was  not  sickly,  but 
pale  and  fine  as  a  white  lily.  Her  eyes  were  like 
dark  stars,  and  her  hair  was  a  braided  cap  of 
gold,  with  light  curls  falling  from  it  around  her 
face  and  her  sweet  neck.  Of  late  Persis  had  re 
belled  upon  one  minor  point :  she  never,  even  of 
a  morning,  would  sit  at  the  window  with  her 
hair  rolled  up  in  curl-papers.  She  argued  with 
her  father,  with  a  duplicity  which  was  unlike 
83 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

her,  that  should  the  gentleman  arrive  suddenly, 
she  would  have  no  time  to  take  them  down  be 
fore  he  saw  her.  But  that  was  not  the  reason. 
Ichabod  never  suspected,  neither  did  the  stupid 
Submit,  padding  faithfully  in  her  household 
tracks  ;  the  son,  Ichabod,  was  away  at  sea.  No 
body  knew  how  the  Buckley  Lady,  sitting  in  her 
window  watching,  had  seen  Darius  Hopkins  pass 
by,  with  never  a  coach  and  four,  but  striding 
bravely  along  on  his  own  stalwart  young  legs, 
and  how  her  heart  had  gone  out  to  him  and  fol 
lowed  him,  whether  she  would  or  not. 

Darius  Hopkins  was  Mistress  Tabitha  Hop- 
kins's  nephew,  and  he  had  come  from  Boston  to 
pay  his  aunt  a  visit.  People  whispered  that  he 
had  expectations,  and  had  come  with  a  purpose. 
Mistress  Tabitha  had  received  within  two  years  a 
legacy,  nobody  knew  how  large,  by  the  death  of 
a  relative.  However  that  may  have  been,  the 
young  man  treated  his  aunt  with  exceeding 
deference  and  tenderness.  Her  pride  and  de 
light  were  great.  She  held  her  head  high,  and 
swung  out  her  slim  foot  with  almost  the  motion 
of  her  old  dancing  steps  when  she  went  up  the 
meeting-house  aisle  on  a  Sabbath  day,  leaning 
on  her  nephew's  arm.  Darius  was  finely  dressed, 
and  he  was  also  a  personable  young  man  of  whom 
she  might  well  be  proud.  She  kept  glancing  at 
him  almost  with  the  shy  delight  of  a  sweetheart. 
Darius  had  a  glossy  dark  head  and  a  dark  com- 
83 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

plexion,  but  his  eyes  were  blue  and  light,  and 
somewhat,  as  she  fondly  thought,  like  her  own. 

Darius  had  arrived  on  a  Thursday,  and  it  was 
on  that  day  Persis  Buckley  had  seen  him,  and 
he  had  seen  her  at  her  window.  Tabitha  Hop- 
kins's  house  was  past  the  Buckleys',  fairly  out  at 
sea,  on  the  point,  across  the  marshy  meadows. 

The  young  man  glanced  up  carelessly  at  the 
Buckley  house  as  he  passed  ;  then  he  started, 
and  fairly  stopped,  and  his  heart  leaped  almost 
with  fear,  for  it  actually  seemed  to  him  that  he 
saw  the  face  of  an  angel  in  the  window. 

"  Who  was  the  maid  in  the  window  of  the 
house  back  yonder  ?"  he  said  to  his  aunt  as  soon 
as  he  had  greeted  her.  He  waved  his  hand  care 
lessly  backward,  and  tried  to  speak  as  carelessly, 
but  his  aunt  gave  him  a  sharp  look. 

"It  must  have  been  Persis  Buckley,"  said 
she. 

"There  is  not  another  face  like  that  in  the 
whole  country,"  said  the  young  man,  and  in 
spite  of  himself  his  tongue  betrayed  him. 

' f  Yes,  it  is  generally  considered  that  she  has  a 
fair  face,"  said  Tabitha,  dryly.  "  She  has  ac 
complishments  also.  She  can  play  music,  and 
she  has  a  pretty  voice  for  a  song.  She  can 
dance,  though  that's  not  to  be  spoke  of  in  this 
godly  town,  and  she  is  well  versed  in  polite 
literature.  Persis  Buckley  is  fitted  to  adorn 
any  high  estate  to  which  she  may  be  called." 
84 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

There  was  a  mysterious  tone  in  Tabitha's 
voice,  and  her  nephew  looked  at  her  with  eager 
inquiry. 

"What  mean  you,  aunt  ?"  he  said. 

"  What  I  have  said/'  replied  she,  aggravating- 
ly,  and  would  tell  him  no  more.  She  was  secret 
ly  a  little  jealous  that  her  nephew  had  shortened 
his  greeting  to  her  to  inquire  about  Persis.  Old 
single  woman  though  she  was,  her  feminine  birth 
right  of  jealousy  of  the  love  of  men,  be  they 
lovers  or  sons  or  nephews,  still  survived  in  her 
heart. 

The  young  man  dared  not  ask  her  any  more 
questions,  but  the  next  day  he  passed  the  Buck 
ley  house  many  a  time  with  sidelong  glances  at 
the  window  where  Persis  sat.  He  would  not 
stare  too  boldly  at  that  fair  vision.  And  in  the 
evening  he  stole  out  and  strolled  slowly  over  the 
meadows,  and  came  to  the  Buckley  house  again. 
She  was  not  at  the  window  then,  but  the  sweet 
tinkle  of  her  piano  came  out  to  him  from  the 
candle-lit  room,  and  he  listened  in  rapture  to  her 
tender  little  voice  trilling  and  quavering.  Then 
peeping  cautiously,  he  saw  her  graceful  head 
thrown  back,  and  her  white  throat  swelling  with 
her  song  like  a  bird's. 

When  he  returned,  his  aunt  looked  at  him 
sharply,  but  she  did  not  ask  where  he  had  been. 
When  he  took  his  candle  to  retire  for  the  night, 
her  old  blue  eyes  twinkled  at  him  suddenly. 
85 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

"  How  did  the  little  bird  sing  to-night  ?"  she 
said. 

The  young  man  stared  at  her  a  second,  then 
he  blushed  and  laughed.  "  Bravely,  aunt,  brave 
ly,"  he  replied. 

"  'Tis  a  bird  in  the  bush,  nephew,"  said  she, 
and  her  voice  was  mocking,  yet  shrewdly  tender. 

Darius's  face  fell.  "  What  do  you  mean, 
aunt  ?"  he  said. 

"  'Tis  a  bird  that  will  always  sing  in  the  bush, 
and  never  in  hand." 

Darius  made  as  if  he  would  question  his  aunt 
further,  but  he  did  not.  He  bade  her  good 
night  in  a  downcast  and  confused  manner,  and 
was  out  of  the  room  like  a  shy  girl. 

Mistress  Tabitha  chuckled  to  herself,  then  she 
looked  grave,  and  sat  in  her  rocking-chair  for  a 
long  time  thinking. 

Darius  Hopkins  marvelled  much  what  his 
aunt  could  mean  by  her  warning,  and  was  un 
easy  over  it.  But  the  next  day  also  he  had 
many  an  errand  across  the  meadows,  down  the 
forest  road,  to  the  village,  and  always  he  saw, 
without  seeming  to  see,  Persis  at  the  window, 
and  always  she  saw,  without  seeming  to  see, 
him. 

On  the  Sabbath  day,  when  he  and  his  aunt 
went  by  the  Buckley  house  on  their  way  to  meet 
ing,  Persis  was  not  at  the  window.  His  aunt 
surprised  his  sly  glances.  "  They  go  to  meeting 
86 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

early/7  said  she,  demurely.  Darins  laughed  in  a 
shamefaced  fashion. 

After  he  and  his  aunt  were  seated  in  the  meet 
ing-house,  he  scarcely  dared  look  up  for  a  while, 
for  he  feared,  should  he  see  Persis  suddenly  and 
near  at  hand,  his  face  might  alter  in  spite  of 
himself.  And,  in  truth,  when  he  did  look  up, 
and  saw  Persis  close  before  him  in  a  pew  at  the 
side  of  the  pulpit,  a  tremor  ran  over  him,  his 
lips  twitched,  and  all  the  color  left  his  face. 
His  aunt  pressed  her  bottle  of  salts  into  his 
hand,,  and  he  pressed  it  back  almost  sharply, 
and  turned  red  as  a  girl  to  the  roots  of  his  black 
hair.  Then  he  sat  up  straight  and  looked  over 
almost  defiantly  at  Persis.  Her  face  in  her  blue 
satin  bonnet,  with  its  drooping  blue  plume  and 
lace  veil  thrown  to  one  side,  was  fair  enough  to 
stir  the  heart  of  any  mortal  man  who  looked  at 
her. 

There  were,  indeed,  in  that  meeting-house, 
certain  godly  men  who  kept  their  eyes  sternly 
turned  away,  and  would  not  look  upon  her, 
thinking  it  a  sin,  although  it  was  a  sin  to  their 
own  hearts  alone. 

But  many  a  young  man  besides  Darius  Hop 
kins,  although  he  had  seen  her  in  that  selfsame 
place  Sabbath  after  Sabbath,  still  regarded  her 
furtively  with  looks  of  almost  startled  adoration. 
Not  one  of  them  had  ever  spoken  to  her  or  heard 
her  speak,  or  seen  her  except  in  the  meetiug- 
87 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

house,  or  at  her  window,  or  thickly  veiled  on  the 
village  street. 

Persis  to-day  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  par 
son,  exhorting  under  his  echoing  sounding-board. 
She  never  looked  around,  although  she  knew 
that  Darius  was  sitting  beside  his  aunt  in  her 
pew.  She  also  was  afraid,  and  she  never  recov 
ered  courage,  like  Darius.  Her  father,  Ichabod, 
fiercely  intent  upon  the  discourse,  his  nervous 
face  screwed  to  a  very  point  of  attention,  sat  on 
one  side  ;  her  sister  Submit,  her  back  bowed 
like  an  old  woman's,  on  the  other. 

When  meeting  was  over,  Ichabod  shot  down 
the  aisle,  with  his  daughters  following,  as  was 
his  wont,  and  reached  the  door  before  many  that 
sat  farther  back. 

When  Darius  and  his  aunt  came  out  of  the 
meeting-house,  the  Buckleys  were  quite  out  of 
sight.  When  they  emerged  from  the  road  past 
the  graveyard  through  the  woods,  Persis  was  al 
ready  at  the  window,  with  her  bonnet  off,  but 
she  kept  her  head  turned  far  to  one  side,  as  if 
intent  upon  something  in  the  room,  and  only  the 
pink  curve  of  one  cheek  was  visible. 

Darius  had  grown  bold  in  the  meeting-house  ; 
this  time  he  looked,  and  forgot  himself  in  look 
ing. 

"  She  is  a  pretty  maid,  but  she  is  not  for  you, 
nor  for  any  other  young  man  unless  he  come  for 
her  with  a  coach  and  four,  with  a  black  gentle- 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

man  a-driving,"  said  his  aunt's  voice  half  mock 
ingly  at  his  side. 

Then  the  young  man  turned  and  questioned 
her  quite  boldly.  "  I  beg  of  you  to  tell  me  what 
you  mean,  aunt,"  he  said. 

Then  Mistress  Tabitha  Hopkins,  holding  her 
Sabbath  gown  high  above  her  hooped  satin  pet 
ticoat  as  she  stepped  along,  unfolded  to  her 
nephew  Darius  Hopkins  the  strange  romance  of 
Persis  Buckley's  life. 

"  'Tis  a  shame  !"  cried  the  young  man,  indig 
nantly,  when  she  had  finished  —  "a  shame,  to 
keep  her  a  prisoner  in  this  fashion  !" 

"  'Tis  only  a  prince  with  a  coach  and  four  can 
set  her  free.  A  prince  from  over  seas,  with  a 
black  gentleman  a-driving,"  said  his  aunt. 

Darius  turned,  and  stared  back  across  the  flat 
meadow-land  at  Ichabod  Buckley's  house.  It 
was  late  August  now,  and  the  meadow  had  great 
rosy  patches  of  marsh  -  rosemary  flung  upon  it 
like  silken  cloaks  of  cavaliers,  and  far -seen 
purple  plumes  of  blazing  -  star.  Darius  studied 
slowly  the  low  gray  walls  and  long  slant  of  gray 
roofs  in  the  distance. 

l(  A  strong  right  arm  and  a  willing  heart  might 
free  her,  were  he  prince  or  not  !"  said  he.  And 
he  flung  out  his  own  right  arm  as  if  it  were  the 
one  to  do  it. 

"Were  the  maid  willing  to  be  freed,"  said 
Mistress  Tabitha,  softly. 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

Darius  colored.  "That  is  true,  aunt/'  he 
said,  with  a  downcast  and  humbled  air,  and  he 
turned  and  went  on  soberly. 

Mistress  Tabitha  looked  at  her  nephew's  hand 
some  face,  and  thought  to  herself,  with  loving 
but  jealous  pride,  that  no  maid  could  refuse  him 
as  a  deliverer.  But  she  would  not  tell  him  so, 
for  her  heart  was  still  sore  at  his  preference  of 
Persis  to  herself. 

Darius  Hopkins  had  an  uneasy  visit  at  his 
aunt  Tabitha's.  He  did  not  speak  again  of  Per 
sis  Buckley,  but  he  thought  the  more.  Useless, 
as  he  told  himself,  as  either  hopes  or  fears  were, 
they  sprang  up  in  his  heart  like  persistent  flames, 
and  could  not  be  trodden  out. 

He  told  himself  that  it  was  not  sensible  to 
think  that  the  grand  Englishman  would  ever 
come  for  Persis  after  all  these  years,  and  that  it 
was  nothing  to  him  if  he  did.  Yet  he  often 
trembled  when  he  came  in  sight  of  her  house 
lest  he  see  a  coach  and  four  standing  before  it, 
and  see  her  carried  away  before  his  very  eyes. 

And  sometimes  he  would  look  at  his  own 
comely  face  in  the  glass,  and  look  into  his  own 
heart,  and  feel  as  if  the  love  therein  must  com 
pel  her  even  against  her  will ;  for  she  was  not  an 
angel  or  a  goddess,  after  all,  beautiful  as  she  was, 
but  only  a  mortal  woman.  "She  cannot  love 
this  man  whom  she  has  not  seen  since  she  was  a 
child,  and  he  must  be  an  old  man  now,"  reasoned 
90 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

Darius,  viewing  his  own  gallant  young  face  in 
the  glass.  And  he  smiled  with  hope,  although 
he  knew  that  he  could  not  reasonably  expect  to 
have  more  of  Per  sis  than  the  sight  of  her  face  in 
the  meeting-house  or  at  the  window  were  he  to 
stay  in  the  village  a  year. 

For  a  long  time  Darius  was  not  sure  that  Per- 
sis  even  noticed  him  when  he  passed  by,  but 
there  came  a  day  when  he  had  that  at  least  for 
his  comfort.  That  day  he  had  not  passed  her 
house  until  late  ;  on  the  day  before  her  face  had 
been  so  far  turned  from  the  window  that  his 
heart  had  sunk.  lie  had  said  to  himself  that  he 
would  be  such  a  love-cracked  fool  no  longer  ;  he 
would  not  pass  her  house  again  unless  of  a  neces 
sity.  So  all  that  day  he  had  sat  moodily  with 
his  aunt,  but  just  before  dusk  his  resolution  had 
failed  him.  He  had  strolled  slowly  across  the 
meadow,  while  his  aunt  watched  him  from  her 
window,  smiling  shrewdly. 

He  had  not  meant  to  glance  even  when  he 
passed  the  Buckley  house,  but  in  spite  of  himself 
his  eyes  turned.  And  there  was  Persis  at  the 
window,  leaning  towards  him,  with  her  face  all 
radiant  with  joy.  It  was  only  a  second,  and  she 
was  gone.  Darius  had  no  time  for  anything  but 
that  one  look,  but  that  was  enough.  He  felt  as 
if  he  had  already  routed  the  gallant  with  the 
coach  and  four.  He  meditated  all  sorts  of 
audacious  schemes  as  he  went  home.  What 
91 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

could  he  not  do,  if  Persis  would  only  smile  upon 
him  ?  He  felt  like  marching  straight  upon  her 
house,  like  a  soldier  upon  a  castle,  and  demand 
ing  her  of  her  father,  who  was  her  jailer. 

But  the  next  day  his  heart  failed  him  again, 
for  she  was  not  at  her  window — nor  the  next, 
nor  the  next.  He  could  not  know  that  she  was 
peeping  through  the  crack  in  the  shutter,  and 
that  her  embroidery  and  her  reading  and  her  old 
thoughts  were  all  thrown  aside  for  his  sake. 
Persis  Buckley  could  do  nothing,  day  nor  night, 
but  think  of  Darius  Hopkins,  and  watch  for  him 
to  pass  her  window. 

She  did  not  know  why,  but  she  did  not  like  to 
look  fairly  out  of  the  window  at  him  any  longer. 
She  could  only  peep  through  the  crack  in  the 
shutter,  with  her  color  coming  and  going,  and 
her  heart  beating  loud  in  her  ears. 

But  when  Darius  saw  no  more  of  Persis  at  the 
window,  he  told  himself  that  his  conceit  had 
misled  him  ;  that  no  such  marvellous  creature 
as  that  could  have  looked  upon  him  as  he  had 
thought,  and  that  his  bold  stare  had  affronted 
her. 

So  he  did  not  pass  the  Buckley  house  for  sev 
eral  days,  and  Persis  watched  in  vain.  One 
afternoon  she  rose  up  suddenly,  with  her  soft 
cheek  all  creased  where  she  had  leaned  it  against 
the  shutter.  "  He  will  not  come  ;  I  will  watch 
no  longer,"  she  said  to  herself,  half  angrily. 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

And  she  got  out  her  green  silk  pelisse  and  her 
bonnet,  and  prepared  to  walk  abroad.  She 
went  through  the  kitchen,  and  her  sister  Sub 
mit  stared  up  at  her  from  the  hearth,  which  she 
was  washing. 

"You  have  not  got  on  your  veil,  Persis,"  said 
she. 

"  I  want  no  veil/'  Persis  returned,  impatiently. 

"  But  you  will  get  burned  in  the  wind  ;  fa 
ther  will  not  like  it,"  said  Submit,  with  wonder 
ing  and  dull  remonstrance. 

"  Well,"  sighed  Persis,  resignedly.  And  Sub 
mit  got  the  black-wrought  veil,  and  tied  it  over 
her  sister's  beautiful  face. 

Poor  Persis,  when  she  was  out  of  the  house, 
glanced  hastily  through  the  black  maze  of  leaves 
and  flowers  across  the  meadow,  but  she  saw  no 
one  coining.  Then  she  strolled  on  away  down 
the  road  through  the  woods.  Just  that  side  of 
the  bury  ing-ground  there  was  an  oak  grove,  and 
she  went  in  there  and  sat  down  a  little  way  from 
the  road,  with  her  back  against  a  tree.  It  was 
very  cool  for  the  time  of  year,  but  the  sun  shone 
bright.  All  the  oak-trees  trilled  sharply  with 
the  insects  hidden  in  them,  and  the  leaves  rus 
tled  together. 

Persis  sat  very  stiffly  under  the  oak-tree.  Her 
petticoat  was  of  green  flowered  chintz,  and  her 
pelisse  and  her  bonnet  of  green  silk.  She  was 
as  undistinguishable  as  a  green  plant  against  the 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

trunk  of  the  tree,  and  neither  Darius  Hopkins 
nor  his  aunt  Tabitha  saw  her  when  they  passed. 
Persis  heard  their  voices  before  they  came  in 
sight.  She  scarcely  breathed.  She  seemed  to 
be  fairly  hiding  within  herself,  and  forcing  her 
very  thoughts  away  from  the  eyes  of  Darius  and 
his  aunt. 

Mistress  Tabitha  came  down  the  wood,  step 
ping  with  her  fine  mincing  gait,  and  leaning 
upon  her  nephew's  arm.  They  never  dreamed 
that  Persis  was  near.  The  green  waving  lines 
of  the  forest  met  their  eyes  on  either  hand,  but 
all  unnoted,  being  as  it  were  the  revolutions  of 
that  green  wheel  of  nature  of  which  long 
acquaintance  had  dimmed  their  perception. 
Only  an  unusual  motion  therein  could  arouse 
their  attention  when  their  thoughts  were  else 
where,  and  they  were  talking  busily. 

As  they  came  opposite  Persis,  Mistress  Tabitha 
cried  out  suddenly,  and  her  voice  was  full  of 
dismay.  "Not  to-morrow!"  she  cried  out. 
"  You  go  not  to-morrow,  Darius  !" 

And  Darius  replied,  sadly :  "  I  must,  Aunt 
Tabitha.  I  must  go  back  to  Boston  by  the 
Thursday  stage-coach,  and  to-day  is  AVednes- 
day." 

Persis  heard  no  more.      She  felt  faint,   and 

there  was  a  strange  singing  in  her  ears.     As  soon 

as  the  aunt  and  nephew  were  well  past,  she  got 

up  and  hastened  back  to  the  house.     She  took 

94 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

off  her  bonnet  and  pelisse,  and  sat  down  in  her 
old  place  at  the  window,  where  she  had  watched 
so  many  years  through  her  strange  warped  youth. 
When  she  saw  Darius  and  his  aunt  returning,  all 
her  soul  seemed  to  leap  forward  and  look  out  of 
her  great  dark  eyes.  But  Darius  never  glanced 
her  way.  He  knew  she  was  there,  for  his  aunt 
said,  "  There  is  Persis  Buckley,"  and  nodded ; 
but  he  dared  not  look,  for  fear  lest  he  look  too 
boldly,  and  she  be  offended. 

Persis  did  not  nod  in  response  to  Mistress 
Tabitha.  She  only  looked,  and  looked  at  the 
slight,  straight  figure  of  the  young  man  moving 
past  her  and  out  of  her  life.  She  thought  that 
it  was  the  last  time  that  she  should  ever  see  him 
— the  Boston  stage  left  at  daybreak.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  he  would  never  come  again  ;  and  if 
he  did,  that  she  could  not  live  until  the  time, 
but  should  ride  away  first  from  her  old  home 
forever,  in  gloomier  state  than  had  been  planned 
for  so  many  years. 

When  Darius  and  his  aunt  were  out  of  sight 
she  heard  her  father's  voice  in  the  kitchen,  and 
she  arose  and  went  out  there  with  a  sudden 
resolve.  "  Father,"  she  said,  standing  before 
Ichabod. 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  curious  startled  way. 
There  was  a  strange  gleam  in  her  soft  eyes,  and 
a  strange  expression  about  her  docile  mouth, 

"  What  is  it  ?"  he  said. 
95 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

"He  will  never  come,  father.  I  want  to  be 
different." 

"  Who  will  never  come  ?  What  do  you  mean, 
Persis  ?" 

"The — gentleman — the  grand  gentleman  with 
— the  coach  and  four.  He  will  never  come  for 
me  now.  I  want  to  be  different,  father.  I  want 
to  work  with  Submit,  and  not  stay  in  there  by 
myself.  If  I  have  to  any  longer  I  shall  die,  I 
think.  I  want  to  be  different.  He  will  never 
come  now,  father/' 

Ichabod  Buckley  trembled  with  long  con 
vulsive  tremors,  which  seemed  to  leave  him 
rigid  and  stiff  as  they  passed.  "  He  will  come  !" 
he  returned,  and  he  shouted  out  the  words  like 
an  oath. 

Submit,  who  was  preparing  supper,  stopped, 
and  stood  pale  and  staring. 

Persis  quailed  a  little,  but  she  spoke  again. 

"It  is  too  long  now,  father,"  she  said.  "  He 
has  forgotten  me.  He  has  married  another  in 
England.  He  will  never  come,  and  I  want  to  be 
different.  And  should  he  come,  after  all,  I 
should  be  sorely  afraid  to  go  with  him  now.  I 
could  never  go  with  him  now,  father." 

Ichabod  turned  upon  her,  and  spoke  with  such 
force  that  she  shrank,  as  if  before  a  stormy  blast. 
"  I  tell  ye  he  will  come  !"  he  shouted,  hoarsely. 
"  He  will  come,  and  you  shall  go  with  him, 
whether  you  will  or  no  !  He  will  come,  and  yon 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

shall  sit  there  in  that  room  and  wait  for  him 
until  he  comes  !  You  should  wait  there  until 
you  were  dead,  if  he  came  not  before.  But  he 
will,  I  tell  ye — he  will  come  /" 

Persis  fled  before  her  father  back  to  the  best 
room,  and  sat  there  in  the  gathering  dusk. 
Across  the  meadows  the  light  of  Tabitha  Hop- 
kins's  evening  candle  shone  out  suddenly  like  a 
low-hung  star,  and  Persis  sat  watching  it.  When 
Submit  called,  in  a  scared  voice,  that  supper  was 
ready,  she  went  out  at  once,  and  took  her  place 
at  the  table.  There  were  pink  spots  in  her 
usually  pale  cheeks  ;  she  spoke  not  a  word,  and 
scarcely  tasted  the  little  tid-bits  grouped  as 
usual  around  her  plate.  Her  father  swallowed 
his  food  with  nervous  gulps,  then  he  left  the 
table  and  went  out.  Soon  Persis  heard  the 
grate  of  his  tools  on  the  gravestone  slate,  and 
knew  that  he  had  gone  to  work  by  candle-light, 
something  he  seldom  did. 

"  Father  is  put  out,"  Submit  said,  with  a  half- 
scared,  half-reproachful  look  at  Persis. 

"Oh,  Submit  !"  Persis  cried  out,  with  the  first 
appeal  she  had  ever  made  in  her  life  to  her  slow- 
witted  elder  sister,  "  I  must  be  different,  or  I 
think  I  shall  die  !" 

"  Maybe  he  will  come  soon/'  said  Submit,  who 
did  not  understand  her  sister's  appeal.  "  May 
be  he  will  come  soon,  Persis.  Father  thinks 
so,"  she  repeated,  as  she  rose  from  the  table 
G  97 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

and  padded  heavily  about,  removing  the  supper 
dishes. 

Then  she  added  something  which  filled  her 
sister's  soul  with  fright  and  dismay. 

"  Father  he  dreamt  a  dream  last  night,"  said 
Submit,  in  her  thick  drone.  "  He  dreamt  that 
the  grand  gentleman  came  with  the  coach  and 
four,  and  the  black  gentleman  a-driving,  and  the 
grand  lady  in  a  velvet  hood,  just  as  he  came  be 
fore,  and  you  got  in  and  rode  away.  And  he 
dreamt  he  came  on  a  Thursday." 

"  To-morrow  is  Thursday,"  gasped  Persis. 

Submit  nodded.  "  Father  thinks  he  will  come 
to-morrow/'  said  she.  "  He  bade  me  not  tell 
you,  but  I  will  for  your  comfort." 

Submit  stared  wonderingly  at  her  sister's  dis 
tressed  face  as  she  ran  out  of  the  room  ;  then 
she  went  on  with  her  work.  She  presently,  in 
sweeping  the  hearth,  made  a  long  black  mark 
thereon,  and  straightway  told  herself  that  there 
was  another  sign  that  the  gentleman  was  com 
ing.  Submit  was  well  versed  in  New  England 
domestic  superstition,  that  being  her  only  ex 
ercise  of  imagination. 

Persis  did  not  light  the  candles  in  the  best 
room.  She  sat  at  the  window  in  the  dark,  and 
watched  again  Mistress  Tabitha's  candle-light 
across  the  meadow.  She  also  stared  from  time 
to  time  in  a  startled  way  in  the  other  direction 
towards  the  woodland  road.  Persis  also  was 
98 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 
IX 

superstitions.  She  feared  lest  her  father's  dream 
come  true.  She  seemed  to  almost  see  now  and 
then  that  stately  equipage  emerge  as  of  old  from 
the  woods.  She  almost  thought  that  she  heard 
the  far-away  rumble  of  the  wheels.  She  kept 
reminding  herself  that  it  was  Wednesday,  and 
her  father's  dream  said  Thursday  ;  but  what  if 
she  did  have  to  go  away  forever  with  that 
strange  gentleman  only  the  next  day  !  She 
thought  suddenly,  not  knowing  why,  of  Clarissa 
Ilarlowe  and  Lovelace  in  her  book.  Mistress 
Tabitha's  purpose  had  not  wholly  failed  in  its 
effect.  A  great  vague  horror  of  something  which 
she  was  too  ignorant  to  see  fairly  came  over  her. 
The  face  of  that  fine  strange  gentleman,  dimly 
remembered  before  through  all  the  years,  shaped 
itself  suddenly  and  plainly  out  of  the  darkness 
like  the  face  of  a  demon.  Persis  looked  away, 
shuddering,  to  the  candle-gleam  over  the  mead 
ow,  and  Darius  Hopkins's  eyes  seemed  to  look 
wistfully  and  lovingly  into  hers. 

Persis  Buckley  arose  softly,  groped  her  way 
across  the  room  in  the  dark,  sliding  noiselessly 
like  a  shadow,  felt  for  the  latch  of  the  door  that 
led  into  the  front  entry,  lifted  it  cautiously,  stole 
out  into  the  entry,  then  opened  the  outer  door 
with  careful  pains  by  degrees,  and  was  out  of 
the  house. 

Persis  fled  then  past  the  plumy  gloom  of  the 
pine-trees  that  skirted  the  wood,  over  the  mead- 
99 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

ow,  straight  towards  that  candle-gleam  in  the 
Hopkins  window. 

There  was  a  dry  northeaster  blowing,  and  it 
struck  her  as  she  fled,  and  lashed  her  clothing 
about  her.  She  had  on  no  outer  wraps,  and  her 
head  and  her  delicate  face,  which  had  always 
been  veiled  before  a  zephyr,  were  now  all  rough 
ened  and  buffeted  by  this  strong  wind,  which 
carried  the  sting  of  salt  in  it. 

She  never  thought  of  it  nor  minded  it.  She 
fled  on  and  on  like  a  love-compelled  bird,  with 
only  one  single  impulse  in  her  whole  being.  The 
measure  of  freedom  is  always  in  proportion  to 
the  measure  of  previous  restraint.  Persis  Buck 
ley  had  been  under  a  restraint  which  no  maid 
en  in  this  New  England  village  had  ever  suf 
fered,  and  she  had  gotten  from  it  an  impetus 
for  a  deed  which  they  would  have  blushed  to 
think  of. 

She  fled  on,  forcing  her  way  against  the  wind, 
which  sometimes  seemed  to  meet  her  like  a  mov 
ing  wall,  and  sometimes  like  the  rushing  legions 
of  that  Prince  of  the  Powers  of  the  Air  of  whom 
she  had  read  in  the  Bible,  making  as  if  they 
would  lift  her  up  bodily  and  carry  her  away 
among  them  into  unknown  tumult  and  dark 
ness. 

When  Persis  reached  Tabitha  Hopkins's  door, 
she  was  nearly  spent.  Her  life  had  not  trained 
her  well  for  a  flight  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind, 
100 


THE    BUCKLEY' LADY 

She  leaned  against  the  door  for  a  minnte  faint 
and  gasping. 

Then  she  raised  the  knocker,,  and  it  fell  with 
only  a  slight  clang ;  but  directly  she  heard  an 
inner  door  open,  and  a  step. 

Then  the  door  swung  back  before  her,,  and 
Darius  Hopkins  stood  there  in  the  dim  candle 
light  shining  from  the  room  within. 

He  could  not  see  Persis's  face  plainly  at  tirst, 
only  her  little  white  hands  reaching  out  to  him 
like  a  child's  from  the  gloom. 

"Who  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  doubtfully,  and  his 
voice  trembled. 

Persis  made  a  little  panting  sound  that  was 
half  a  sob.  Darius  bent  forward,  peering  out. 
Then  he  cried  out,  and  caught  at  those  little  be 
seeching  hands. 

"  It  is  not  you  !"  he  cried.  "  It  is  not  you  ! 
You  have  not  come  to  me  I  It  is  not  you  I" 

Darius  Hopkins,  scarcely  knowing  what  he 
did,  he  was  so  stirred  with  joy  and  triumph  and 
doubt  and  fear,  led  Persis  into  the  house  and 
the  candle-lit  room.  Then,  when  he  saw  in 
truth  before  him  that  beautiful  face  which  he 
had  worshipped  from  afar,  the  young  man  trem 
bled  and  fell  down  upon  his  knees  before  Persis 
as  if  she  were  indeed  a  queen,  or  an  angel  who 
had  come  to  bless  him,  and  kissed  her  hand. 

But  Persis  stood  there,  trembling  and  pale, 
before  him,  with  the  tears  falling  from  her  won- 
101 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

derfol  eyes,  and  her  sweet  month  quivering. 
"  Do  not  let  him  carry  me  away,"  she  pleaded, 
faintly. 

Then  Darius  sprang  to  his  feet  and  put  his 
arms  around  her.  "  Who  is  it  would  carry  you 
away  ?"  he  said,  angrily  and  tenderly.  "  No  one 
shall  have  you.  Who  is  it  ?" 

' '  The  —  gentleman  —  from  over  -  seas,"  whis 
pered  Persis.  Her  soft  wet  cheek  was  pressed 
against  Darius's. 

"He  has  not  come?"  he  questioned,  starting 
fiercely. 

"  No  ;  hut — father  has  dreamed  that  he  will 
— to-morrow." 

Then  Darius  laughed  gayly.  "  Dreams  go  by 
contraries,"  he  said. 

"  Do  not  let  him  carry  me  away,"  Persis  plead 
ed  again,  and  she  sobbed  on  his  shoulder,  and 
clung  to  him. 

Darius  held  her  more  closely.  "  He  shall 
never  carry  you  away,  even  if  he  comes,  against 
your  will,"  he  said.  "Do  not  fear." 

"I  will  go  with  nobody  but  you,"  whispered 
Persis  in  his  ear. 

And  he  trembled,  scarcely  believing  that  he 
heard  aright.  And,  indeed,  he  scarcely  believed 
even  yet  that  he  was  not  dreaming,  and  that  he 
held  this  beautiful  creature  in  his  arms,  and, 
more  than  all,  that  she  had  come  to  him  of  her 
own  accord. 

102 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

"  You — do — not — mean —  Yon  cannot — oh, 
you  cannot  mean —  You  are  an  angel.  There 
is  no  one  like  you.  You  cannot — you  cannot 
feel  so  about  me  ?"  he  whispered,  brokenly,  at 
length. 

Persis  nodded  against  his  breast. 

"  And — that  was  why — you  came  ?" 

Persis  nodded  again. 

Darius  bent  her  head  back  until  he  could  see 
her  beautiful,  tearful  face.  He  gazed  at  it  with 
reverent  wonder,  then  he  kissed  her  forehead, 
and  gently  loosed  her  arm  from  his  neck,  and 
led  her  over  to  a  chair. 

He  knelt  down  before  her  then  as  if  she  were 
a  queen  upon  a  throne,  and  held  her  hands  soft 
ly.  Then  he  questioned  her  as  to  how  she  had 
come,  and  about  the  expected  coming  of  her 
strange  gentleman  suitor,  and  she  answered  him 
like  a  docile  child. 

Mistress  Tabitha  Hopkins  stood  for  quite  a 
time  in  the  doorway,  and  neither  of  them  saw 
her.  Then  she  spoke  up. 

' '  I  want  to  know  what  this  means,"  said  she. 
"  How  came  she  here  ?"  She  pointed  a  sharp 
forefinger  at  Persis,  who  shrank  before  it. 

But  Darius  arose  quickly  and  went  forward, 
blushing,  but  full  of  manly  confidence.  "  Come 
out  with  me  a  moment,  Aunt  Tabitha,"  he  said ; 
"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  privately."  He 
took  his  aunt's  arm  and  led  her  out  of  the  room, 
103 


THE    BUCKLEY   LADY 

and,  as  he  went,  smiled  back  at  Persis.  "Do 
not  be  afraid,  sweetheart,"  he  said. 

"  Sweetheart  \"  sniffed  Mistress  Tabitha,  be 
fore  the  door  closed. 

Persis  Buckley  had  been  gone  no  longer  than 
an  hour  from  her  own  home  when  Darius  and 
his  aunt  Tabitha  escorted  her  back.  She  was 
wrapped  then  in  a  warm  cloak  of  Mistress  Tab- 
itha's,  and  clung  to  her  lover's  arm,  and  he 
leaned  between  her  and  the  rough  wind,  and 
sheltered  her.  Poor  Mistress  Tabitha,  with  her 
skirts  whipping  about  her  and  her  ears  full  of 
wind,  forced  often  by  the  onset  of  the  gale  at  her 
back  into  staggering  runs,  pressed  along  after 
them.  She  had  declined  with  some  asperity  her 
nephew's  proffered  assistance.  "  You  look  out 
for  her,"  she  said,  shortly.  And  then  she  add 
ed,  to  temper  her  refusal,  that  she  could  better 
keep  her  cloak  around  her  if  both  her  arms  were 
free.  All  her  life  had  Mistress  Tabitha  Hop 
kins  seen  love  only  from  the  outside,  shining  in 
her  neighbor's  window.  It  was  to  her  credit  to 
night  if  she  was  not  all  bitter  when  its  light  fell 
on  her  solitary  old  maiden  face,  but  got  a  certain 
reflected  warmth  and  joy  from  it. 

Nobody  had  missed  Persis.  Submit  was  fairly 
knitting  in  her  sleep,  by  the  kitchen  fire.  Icha- 
bod  was  still  out  in  his  shed  at  work. 

Mistress  Tabitha  stood  back  a  little  while  her 
nephew  bade  Persis  good-bye  at  her  door.  "  Re* 
104 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

member,  do  not  be  frightened,  whatever  happens 
to-morrow,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear.  "If  the 
gentleman  comes  with  the  coach  and  four,  go 
with  him,  and  trust  in  me." 

"  I  will  do  whatever  yon  bid  me,"  whispered 
Persis.  Then  Darius  kissed  her  hand,  and  she 
stole  softly  through  the  dark  doorway  into  the 
gloom  of  the  house,  while  her  faith  in  her  lover 
was  as  a  lamp  to  all  her  thoughts. 

On  the  next  afternoon  there  was  a  sensation  in 
this  little  seaport  town.  A  grand  coach  and 
four,  with  a  black  man  driving,  a  fine  gentle 
man's  head  at  one  window,  and  a  fine  lady's  at 
another,  came  dashing  through  the  place  at  two 
o'clock.  The  women  all  ran  to  the  doors  and 
windows.  Lounging  old  men  straightened  them 
selves  languidly  to  stare,  and  turned  their  vacant 
faces  over  their  shoulders.  A  multitude  of 
small  lads,  with  here  and  there  a  little  petticoat 
among  them,  collected  rapidly,  and  pelted  along 
in  the  wake  of  this  grand  equipage.  They  fol 
lowed  it  quite  through  the  town  to  the  road  that 
led  through  the  woods,  past  the  graveyard,  to 
the  Buckley  house,  then  up  the  road,  panting 
but  eager,  the  smaller  children  dragging  at  the 
hands  of  their  elder  brothers.  When  they 
reached  the  Buckley  house,  this  small  rabble 
separated  itself  into  decorously  silent,  primly 
courtesying  rows  on  either  side  of  the  way. 
Then  the  grand  coach  and  four  at  length  turned 
105 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

about,  and  moved  between  the  courtesying  rows 
of  children,  while  Ichabod  Buckley  stood  proud 
ly  erect  in  his  best  green  surtout  watching  it, 
and  poor  Submit,  with  a  scrubbing-cloth  in  her 
hand,  peeped  around  the  house  corner,  and  the 
Buckley  Lady  rode  away. 

And  all  the  people  saw  the  coach  and  four 
dash  at  a  rattling  pace  back  through  the  town, 
with  the  Buckley  Lady's  face  set  like  a  white 
lily  in  a  window,  and  her  grand  suitor's  fair 
head  opposite.  They  also  saw  another  lady  be 
side  Persis ;  her  face  was  well  hidden  in  her 
great  velvet  hood  and  wrought  veil,  but  she  sat 
up  with  a  stately  air. 

The  children  followed  the  coach  on  the  Bos 
ton  road  as  far  as  they  were  able,  then  they 
straggled  homeward,  and  the  coach  went  out  of 
sight  in  a  great  billow  of  dust. 

It  was  several  days  before  the  people  knew 
what  had  really  happened  —  that  Persis  Buck 
ley  had  gone  away  with  Darius  Hopkins,  with  a 
fair  wig  over  his  black  hair,  and  the  fine  lady  in 
the  velvet  hood  had  been  nobody  but  Mistress 
Tabitha. 

Darius  Hopkins  had  sent  a  letter  to  the  par 
son,  and  begged  him  to  acquaint  Ichabod  Buck 
ley  with  the  truth,  and  humbly  to  crave  his  par 
don  for  himself  and  Persis,  who  was  now  his 
wife,  for  the  deceit  they  had  practised.  "  But, 
in  truth,"  wrote  Darius  Hopkins,  "  my  beloved 
106 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

wife  was  not  acquaint  with  the  plan  at  all,  it 
being  contrived  by  my  aunt,  who  hath  a  shrewd 
head,  and  carried  out  by  myself  ;  and  I  doubt 
mnch  if  she  fairly  knew  with  whom  she  went  at 
the  very  first,  being  quite  overcome  by  her  fright 
and  bewilderment."  And  Darius  Hopkins  begged 
the  parson  also  to  acquaint  Ichabod  Buckley, 
for  his  comfort,  with  this  fact :  Although  his 
daughter  Persis  had  not  wedded  with  a  gentle 
man  of  high  estate  from  over-seas,  yet  he,  Darius 
Hopkins,  was  of  no  mean  birth,  and  had  a.  not 
inconsiderable  share  of  this  world's  goods,  with 
more  in  expectation,  as  his  esteemed  aunt  bade 
him  mention.  And  furthermore,  Darius  Hop 
kins  stated  that  had  he  believed  any  other  way 
than  the  one  he  had  taken  to  be  available  for  the 
purpose  of  winning  his  beloved  wife  and  free 
ing  her  from  a  hard  and  unhappy  lot,  he  would 
much  have  preferred  it.  But  he  had  taken  this, 
believing  there  was  no  other,  in  all  honesty  and 
purity  of  purpose,  and  he  again  humbly  begged 
Ichabod  Buckley's  pardon. 

One  afternoon  the  parson  paced  solemnly  up 
to  the  Buckley  house  with  the  great  red-sealed 
letter  in  his  hand.  Ichabod  was  not  at  work. 
His  nervous  old  face  was  visible  at  the  window 
where  his  daughter's  beautiful  one  had  been  so 
long,  and  the  parson  went  in  the  front  door. 

It  was  two  hours  before  he  came  out,  and  went 
with  his  head  bent  gravely  down  the  road.  He 
107 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

never  told  exactly  what  had  passed  between 
himself  and  Ichabod  Buckley,  but  it  was  whis 
pered  that  the  parsori  had  striven  in  prayer  for 
him  for  the  space  of  an  hour  and  a  half,  but  had 
not  reconciled  him  to  his  disappointment. 

After  his  daughter  had  departed  in  state,  Icha 
bod  Buckley,  while  not  returning  to  his  old  gar 
rulous  ways,  but  comporting  himself  with  a  dig 
nity  that  would  have  befitted  a  squire,  was  seen 
frequently  in  the  store  and  on  the  street,  and  he 
wore  always  his  best  green  surtout,  which  he  had 
heretofore  kept  for  Sabbath  days. 

But  after  the  truth  was  revealed  to  him  Icha 
bod  Buckley  was  seen  no  more  abroad.  He  shut 
himself  up  in  his  poor  workshed,  and  all  day 
long  his  chisel  rasped  on  the  dark  slate.  Persis 
wrote  to  him,  and  Darius,  and  he  read  the  let 
ters,  scowling  fiercely  and  painfully  through  his 
iron-bowed  spectacles,  then  put  them  away  in 
his  beetling  old  desk  in  the  kitchen,  and  fell  to 
work  again. 

It  was  not  three  weeks  after  Persis  went  away 
when  Submit,  with  her  apron  over  her  head, 
went  one  morning  through  the  woods  with  lum 
bering  swiftness  and  called  the  doctor,  for  her 
father  lay  on  his  bed  as  motionless  as  if  he  were 
dead,  and  could  not  speak. 

They  sent  for  Persis,  but  her  father  was  dead 
before  she  reached  her  old  home  and  went  weep 
ing  over  the  threshold,  leaning  on  her  young 
108 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

husband's  arm.  Not  a  word  did  she  have  of 
blame  or  forgiveness  from  her  father's  lips  ;  but 
she  knew  his  last  mind  towards  her  when  she  saw 
what  his  work  had  been  since  the  day  she  left 
him. 

Out  in  Ichabod  Buckley's  workshop  stood  a 
tall  slate  stone,  shaped  like  the  one  he  had  erect 
ed  for  his  dearly  beloved  wife.  On  it  were  cut 
his  name,  and  the  years  of  his  birth  and  death, 
and  under  that  a  verse.  In  his  own  poor  brain, 
strained  almost  asunder  with  its  awful  stress  of 
one  idea  in  life,  he  had  devised  this  verse  ;  with 
his  poor  old  failing  hands  he  had  cut  it  on  the 
stone  : 

"Stranger,  view  well  this  speaking  stone, 

And  drop  a  pitying  tear  ; 
Ingratitude  had  overthrown, 
And  Death  then  laid  me  here." 

Ichabod  Buckley  had  left  a  space  below,  as  if  he 
had  designed  to  make  still  larger  his  appeal  to 
the  pity  of  those  who  should  pause  in  the  future 
by  his  grave  ;  and  thereon  did  Darius  Hopkins, 
to  comfort  his  wife  Persis,  who  grieved  as  if  she 
could  never  be  comforted  when  she  read  the  first, 
cut  another  verse. 

When  the  stone   was  set   up    over   Ichabod's 
grave,  people  kneeling  before  it  read,  after  the 
piteous  complaint  and  prayer  for   sympathy  of 
the  dead  man,  Darius's  verse  : 
109 


THE    BUCKLEY    LADY 

"  Who  doth  his  clearer  sight  possess 

In  brighter  realms  above, 
May  come  his  earthly  woe  to  bless, 
And  know  that  all  was  Love." 

And  it  has  so  happened,  because  Darius  cut 
with  his  strong  young  hands  more  firmly  and 
deeply  his  verse  in  the  stone,  that  his  has  en 
dured  and  can  be  read,  while  Ichabod's  is  all 
worn  away  by  the  rain-storms  of  the  years,  as  it 
might  have  been  by  the  tears  of  mortal  life. 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 


ON"  the  south  a  high  arbor- vitae  hedge  sep 
arated  Evelina's  garden  from  the  road.  The 
hedge  was  so  high  that  when  the  school-children 
lagged  by,  and  the  secrets  behind  it  fired  them 
with  more  curiosity  than  those  between  their 
battered  book  covers,  the  tallest  of  them  by 
stretching  up  on  tiptoe  could  not  -peer  over. 
And  so  they  were  driven  to  childish  engineering 
feats,  and  would  set  to  work  and  pick  away  sprigs 
of  the  arbor-vitae  with  their  little  fingers,  and 
make  peep-holes — but  small  ones,  that  Evelina 
might  not  discern  them.  Then  they  would 
thrust  their  pink  faces  into  the  hedge,  and  the 
enduring  fragrance  of  it  would  come  to  their 
nostrils  like  a  gust  of  aromatic  breath  from  the 
mouth  of  the  northern  woods,  and  peer  into 
Evelina's  garden  as  through  the  green  tubes  of 
vernal  telescopes. 

Then  suddenly  hollyhocks,  blooming  in  rank 
and  file,  seemed  to  be  marching  upon  them  like 
platoons  of  soldiers,  with  detonations  of  color 
111 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

that  dazzled  their  peeping  eyes ;  and,  indeed, 
the  whole  garden  seemed  charging  with  its  mass 
of  riotous  bloom  upon  the  hedge.  They  could 
scarcely  take  in  details  of  marigold  and  phlox 
and  pinks  and  London-pride  and  cock's-combs, 
and  prince's-f  eathers  waving  overhead  like  stand 
ards. 

Sometimes  also  there  was  the  purple  flutter  of 
Evelina's  gown  ;  and  Evelina's  face,  delicately 
faded,  hung  about  with  softly  drooping  gray 
curls,  appeared  suddenly  among  the  flowers,  like 
another  flower  uncannily  instinct  with  nervous 
melancholy. 

Then  the  children  would  fall  back  from  their 
peep-holes,  and  huddle  off  together  wijsh  scared 
giggles.  They  were  afraid  of  Evelina.  There 
was  a  shade  of  mystery  about  her  which  stimu 
lated  their  childish  fancies  when  they  heard  her 
discussed  by  their  elders.  They  might  easily 
have  conceived  her  to  be  some  baleful  fairy  in 
trenched  in  her  green  stronghold,  withheld  from 
leaving  it  by  the  fear  of  some  dire  penalty  for 
magical  sins.  Summer  and  winter,  spring  and 
fall,  Evelina  Adams  never  was  seen  outside  her 
own  domain  of  old  mansion-house  and  garden, 
and  she  had  not  set  her  slim  lady  feet  in  the  pub 
lic  highway  for  nearly  forty  years,  if  the  stories 
were  true. 

People  differed  as  to  the  reason  why.  Some 
said  she  had  had  an  unfortunate  love  affair,  that 
113 


EVELINA'S    GAEDEN 

her  heart  had  been  broken,  and  she  had  taken 
upon  herself  a  vow  of  seclusion  from  the  world, 
but  nobody  could  point  to  the  unworthy  lover 
who  had  done  her  this  harm.  When  Evelina  was 
a  girl,  not  one  of  the  young  men  of  the  village 
had  dared  address  her.  She  had  been  set  apart 
by  birth  and  training,  and  also  by  a  certain  ex- 
clusiveness  of  manner,  if  not  of  nature.  Her 
father,  old  Squire  Adams,  had  been  the  one  man 
of  wealth  and  college  learning  in  the  village.  He 
had  owned  the  one  fine  old  mansion-house,  with 
its  white  front  propped  on  great  Corinthian  pil 
lars,  overlooking  the  village  like  a  broad  brow  of 
superiority. 

He  had  owned  the  only  coach  and  four.  His 
wife  during  her  short  life  had  gone  dressed  in 
rich  brocades  and  satins  that  rustled  loud  in  the 
ears  of  the  village  women,  and  her  nodding 
plumes  had  dazzled  the  eyes  under  their  modest 
hoods.  Hardly  a  woman  in  the  village  but  could 
tell — for  it  had  been  handed  down  like  a  folk-lore 
song  from  mother  to  daughter — just  what  Squire 
Adams's  wife  wore  when  she  walked  out  first  as 
bride  to  meeting.  She  had  been  clad  all  in  blue. 

"  Squire  Adams's  wife,  when  she  walked  out 
bride,  she  wore  a  blue  satin  brocade  gown,  all 
wrought  with  blue  flowers  of  a  darker  blue,  cut 
low  neck  and  short  sleeves.  She  wore  long  blue 
silk  mitts  wrought  with  blue,  blue  satin  shoes, 
and  blue  silk  clocked  stockings.  And  she  wore 
H  113 


EVELINA'S    GAKDEN 

a  blue  crape  mantle  that  was  brought  from  over 
seas,  and  a  blue  velvet  hat,  with  a  long  blue  os 
trich  feather  curled  over  it — it  was  so  long  it 
reached  her  shoulder,  and  waved  when  she  walked; 
and  she  carried  a  little  blue  crape  fan  with  ivory 
sticks."  So  the  women  and  girls  told  each  other 
when  the  Squire's  bride  had  been  dead  nearly 
seventy  years. 

The  blue  bride  attire  was  said  to  be  still  in  ex 
istence,  packed  away  in  a  cedar  chest,  as  the 
Squire  had  ordered  after  his  wife's  death.  "  He 
stood  over  the  woman  that  took  care  of  his  wife 
whilst  she  packed  the  things  away,  and  he  never 
shed  a  tear,  but  she  used  to  hear  him  a-goin'  up 
to  the  north  chamber  nights,  when  he  couldn't 
sleep,  to  look  at  'em,"  the  women  told. 

People  had  thought  the  Squire  would  marry 
again.  They  said  Evelina,  who  was  only  four 
years  old,  needed  a  mother,  and  they  selected  one 
and  another  of  the  good  village  girls.  But  the 
Squire  never  married.  He  had  a  single  woman, 
who  dressed  in  black  silk,  and  wore  always  a  black 
wrought  veil  over  the  side  of  her  bonnet,  come 
to  live  with  them,  to  take  charge  of  Evelina.  She 
was  said  to  be  a  distant  relative  of  the  Squire's 
wife,  and  was  much  looked  up  to  by  the  village 
people,  although  she  never  did  more  than  inter 
lace,  as  it  were,  the  fringes  of  her  garments  with 
theirs.  "  She's  stuck  up,"  they  said,  and  felt, 
curiously  enough,  a  certain  pride  in  the  fact  when 
114 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

they  met  her  in  the  street  and  she  ducked  her 
long  chin  stiffly  into  the  folds  of  her  black  shawl 
by  way  of  salutation. 

When  Evelina  was  fifteen  years  old  this  single 
woman  died,  and  the  village  women  went  to  her 
funeral,  and  bent  over  her  lying  in  a  last  help 
less  dignity  in  her  coffin,  and  stared  with  awed 
freedom  at  her  cold  face.  After  that  Evelina 
was  sent  away  to  school,  and  did  not  return,  ex 
cept  for  a  yearly  vacation,  for  six  years  to  come. 
Then  she  returned,  and  settled  down  in  her  old 
home  to  live  out  her  life,  and  end  her  days  in  a 
perfect  semblance  of  peace,  if  it  were  not  peace. 

Evelina  never  had  any  young  school  friend  to 
visit  her  ;  she  had  never,  so  far  as  any  one  knew, 
a  friend  of  her  own  age.  She  lived  alone  with 
her  father  and  three  old  servants.  She  went  to 
meeting,  and  drove  with  the  Squire  in  his  chaise. 
The  coach  was  never  used  after  his  wife's  death, 
except  to  carry  Evelina  to  and  from  school.  She 
and  the  Squire  also  took  long  walks,  but  they 
never  exchanged  aught  but  the  merest  civilities 
of  good-days  and  nods  with  the  neighbors  whom 
they  met,  unless  indeed  the  Squire  had  some 
matter  of  business  to  discuss.  Then  Evelina 
stood  aside  and  waited,  her  fair  face  drooping 
gravely  aloof.  She  was  very  pretty,  with  a  gentle 
high-bred  prettiness  that  impressed  the  village 
folk,  although  they  looked  at  it  somewhat 
askance. 

115 


EVELINA'S    GAKDEN 

Evelina's  figure  was  tall,  and  had  a  fine  slen- 
derness  ;  her  silken  skirts  hung  straight  from  the 
narrow  silk  ribbon  that  girt  her  slim  waist ;  there 
was  a  languidly  graceful  bend  in  her  long  white 
throat ;  her  long  delicate  hands  hung  inertly  at 
her  sides  among  her  skirt  folds,  and  were  never 
seen  to  clasp  anything  ;  her  softly  clustering  fair 
curls  hung  over  her  thin  blooming  cheeks,  and 
her  face  could  scarce  be  seen,  unless,  as  she  sel 
dom  did,  she  turned  and  looked  full  upon  one. 
Then  her  dark  blue  eyes,  with  a  little  nervous 
frown  between  them,  shone  out  radiantly ;  her 
thin  lips  showed  a  warm  red,  and  her  beauty 
startled  one. 

Everybody  wondered  why  she  did  not  have  a 
lover,  why  some  fine  young  man  had  not  been 
smitten  by  her  while  she  had  been  away  at  school. 
They  did  not  know  that  the  school  had  been  sit 
uated  in  another  little  village,  the  counterpart  of 
the  one  in  which  she  had  been  born,  wherein  a 
fitting  mate  for  a  bird  of  her  feather  could  hardly 
be  found.  The  simple  young  men  of  the  coun 
try-side  were  at  once  attracted  and  intimidated 
by  her.  They  cast  fond  sly  glances  across  the 
meeting-house  at  her  lovely  face,  but  they  were 
confused  before  her  when  they  jostled  her  in  the 
doorway  and  the  rose  and  lavender  scent  of  her 
lady  garments  came  in  their  faces.  Not  one  of 
them  dared  accost  her,  much  less  march  boldly 
upon  the  great  Corinthian-pillared  house,  raise 
116 


EVELINA'S    GAKDEN 

the  brass  knocker,  and  declare  himself  a  suitor 
for  the  Squire's  daughter. 

One  young  man  there  was,  indeed,  who  treas 
ured  in  his  heart  an  experience  so  subtle  and  so 
slight  that  he  could  scarcely  believe  in  it  himself. 
He  never  recounted  it  to  mortal  soul,  but  kept  it 
as  a  secret  sacred  between  himself  and  his  own 
nature,  but  something  to  be  scoffed  at  and  set 
aside  by  others. 

It  had  happened  one  Sabbath  day  in  summer, 
when  Evelina  had  not  been  many  years  home  from 
school,  as  she  sat  in  the  meeting-house  in  her 
Sabbath  array  of  rose-colored  satin  gown,  and 
white  bonnet  trimmed  with  a  long  white  feather 
and  a  little  wreath  of  feathery  green,  that  of  a 
sudden  she  raised  her  head  and  turned  her  face, 
and  her  blue  eyes  met  this  young  man's  full  upon 
hers,  with  all  his  heart  in  them,  and  it  was  for  a 
second  as  if  her  own  heart  leaped  to  the  surface, 
and  he  saw  it,  although  afterwards  he  scarce  be 
lieved  it  to  be  true. 

Then  a  pallor  crept  over  Evelina's  delicately 
brilliant  face.  She  turned  it  away,  and  her  curls 
falling  softly  from  under  the  green  wreath  on 
her  bonnet  brim  hid  it.  The  young  man's  cheeks 
were  a  hot  red,  and  his  heart  beat  loudly  in  his 
ears  when  he  met  her  in  the  doorway  after  the 
sermon  was  done.  His  eager,  timorous  eyes 
sought  her  face,  but  she  never  looked  his  way. 
She  laid  her  slim  hand  in  its  cream-colored  silk 
117 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

mitt  on  the  Squire's  arm  ;  her  satin  gown  rustled 
softly  as  she  passed  before  him,  shrinking  against 
the  wall  to  give  her  room,  and  a  faint  fragrance 
which  seemed  like  the  very  breath  of  the  unknown 
delicacy  and  exclnsiveness  of  life  came  to  his  be 
wildered  senses. 

Many  a  time  he  cast  furtive  glances  across  the 
meeting-house  at  Evelina,  but  she  never  looked 
his  way  again.  If  his  timid  boy-eyes  could  have 
seen  her  cheek  behind  its  veil  of  curls,  he  might 
have  discovered  that  the  color  came  and  went  be 
fore  his  glances,  although  it  was  strange  how  she 
could  have  been  conscious  of  them  ;  but  he  never 
knew. 

And  he  also  never  knew  how,  when  he  walked 
past  the  Squire's  house  of  a  Sunday  evening, 
dressed  in  his  best,  with  his  shoulders  thrust  con 
sciously  back,  and  the  windows  in  the  westering 
sun  looked  full  of  blank  gold  to  his  furtive  eyes, 
Evelina  was  always  peeping  at  him  from  behind 
a  shutter,  and  he  never  dared  go  in.  His  intui 
tions  were  not  like  hers,  and  so  nothing  happened 
that  might  have,  and  he  never  fairly  knew  what 
he  knew.  But  that  he  never  told,  even  to  his 
wife  when  he  married ;  for  his  hot  young  blood 
grew  weary  and  impatient  with  this  vain  court 
ship,  and  he  turned  to  one  of  his  villagemates, 
who  met  him  fairly  half  way,  and  married  her 
within  a  year. 

On  the  Sunday  when  he  and  his  bride  first  ap- 
118 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

peared  in  the  meeting-honse  Evelina  went  np  the 
aisle  behind  her  father  in  an  array  of  flowered 
brocade,  stiff  with  threads  of  silver,  so  wonder 
ful  that  people  all  turned  their  heads  to  stare  at 
her.  She  wore  also  a  new  bonnet  of  rose-colored 
satin,  and  her  curls  were  caught  back  a  little,  and 
her  face  showed  as  clear  and  beautiful  as  an 
angel's. 

The  young  bridegroom  glanced  at  her  once 
across  the  meeting-house,  then  he  looked  at  his 
bride  in  her  gay  wedding  finery  with  a  faithful 
look. 

When  Evelina  met  them  in  the  doorway,  after 
meeting  was  done,  she  bowed  with  a  sweet  cold 
grace  to  the  bride,  who  courtesied  blushingly  in 
return,  with  an  awkward  sweep  of  her  foot  in  the 
bridal  satin  shoe.  The  bridegroom  did  not  look 
at  Evelina  at  all.  He  held  his  chin  well  down  in 
his  stock  with  solemn  embarrassment,  and  passed 
out  stiffly,  his  bride  on  his  arm. 

Evelina,  shining  in  the  sun  like  a  silver  lily, 
went  up  the  street,  her  father  stalking  beside 
her  with  stately  swings  of  his  cane,  and  that  was 
the  last  time  she  was  ever  seen  at  meeting.    No->. 
body  knew  why. 

When  Evelina  was  a  little  over  thirty  her  father 
died.  There  was  not  much  active  grief  for  him 
in  the  village  ;  he  had  really  figured  therein  more 
as  a  stately  monument  of  his  own  grandeur  than 
anything  else.  He  had  been  a  man  of  little  force 
119 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

of  character,  and  that  little  had  seemed  to  de 
generate  since  his  wife  died.  An  inborn  dignity 
of  manner  might  have  served  to  disguise  his 
weakness  with  any  others  than  these  shrewd  New- 
Englanders,  but  they  read  him  rightly.  "  The 
Squire  waVt  ever  one  to  set  the  river  a-fire," 
they  said.  Then,  moreover,  he  left  none  of  his 
property  to  the  village  to  build  a  new  meeting 
house  or  a  town-house.  It  all  went  to  Evelina. 

People  expected  that  Evelina  would  surely 
show  herself  in  her  mourning  at  meeting  the  Sun 
day  after  the  Squire  died,  but  she  did  not.  More 
over,  it  began  to  be  gradually  discovered  that  she 
never  went  out  in  the  village  street  nor  crossed 
the  boundaries  of  her  own  domains  after  her 
father's  death.  She  lived  in  the  great  house 
with  her  three  servants — a  man  and  his  wife,  and 
the  woman  who  had  been  with  her  mother  when 
she  died.  Then  it  was  that  Evelina's  garden  be 
gan.  There  had  always  been  a  garden  at  the 
back  of  the  Squire's  house,  but  not  like  this,  and 
only  a  low  fence  had  separated  it  from  the  road. 
Now  one  morning  in  the  autumn  the  people  saw 
Evelina's  man-servant,  John  Darby,  setting  out 
the  arbor-vitas  hedge,  and  in  the  spring  after  that 
there  were  ploughing  and  seed-sowing  extending 
over  a  full  half-acre,  which  later  blossomed  out 
in  glory. 

Before  the  hedge  grew  so  high  Evelina  could 
be  seen  at  work  in  her  garden.  She  was  often 
120 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

stooping  over  the  flower-beds  in  the  early  morn 
ing  when  the  village  was  first  astir,  and  she  moved 
among  them  with  her  watering-pot  in  the  twilight 
— a  shadowy  figure  that  might,  from  her  grace 
and  her  constancy  to  the  flowers,  have  been  Flora 
herself. 

As  the  years  went  on,  the  arbor-vitas  hedge  got 
each  season  a  new  growth  and  waxed  taller,  until 
Evelina  could  no  longer  be  seen  above  it.  That 
was  an  annoyance  to  people,  because  the  quiet 
mystery  of  her  life  kept  their  curiosity  alive,  until 
it  was  in  a  constant  straggle,  as  it  were,  with  the 
green  luxuriance  of  the  hedge. 

"John  Darby  had  ought  to  trim  that  hedge," 
they  said.  They  accosted  him  in  the  street : 
"John,  if  ye  don't  cut  that  hedge  down  a  little 
it  '11  all  die  out."  But  he  only  made  a  surly 
grunting  response,  intelligible  to  himself  alone, 
and  passed  on.  He  was  an  Englishman,  and  had 
lived  in  the  Squire's  family  since  he  was  a  boy. 

He  had  a  nature  capable  of  only  one  simple 
line  of  force,  with  no  radiations  or  parallels,  and 
that  had  early  resolved  itself  into  the  service  of 
the  Squire  and  his  house.  After  the  Squire's 
death  he  married  a  woman  who  lived  in  the  family. 
She  was  much  older  than  himself,  and  had  a  high 
temper,  but  was  a  good  servant,  and  he  married 
her  to  keep  her  to  her  allegiance  to  Evelina. 
Then  he  bent  her,  without  her  knowledge,  to  take 
his  own  attitude  towards  his  mistress.  No  more 
121 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

could  be  gotten  out  of  John  Darby's  wife  than 
out  of  John  Darby  concerning  the  doings  at  the 
Squire's  house.  She  met  curiosity  with  a  flash 
of  hot  temper,  and  he  with  surly  taciturnity,  and 
both  intimidated. 

The  third  of  Evelina's  servants  was  the  woman 
who  had  nursed  her  mother,  and  she  was  naturally 
subdued  and  undemonstrative,  and  rendered  still 
more  so  by  a  ceaseless  monotony  of  life.  She 
never  went  to  meeting,  and  was  seldom  seen  out 
side  the  house.  A  passing  vision  of  a  long  white- 
capped  face  at  a  window  was  about  all  the  neigh 
bors  ever  saw  of  this  woman. 

So  Evelina's  gentle  privacy  was  well  guarded 
by  her  own  household,  as  by  a  faithful  system  of 
domestic  police.  She  grew  old  peacefully  behind 
her  green  hedge,  shielded  effectually  from  all 
rough  bristles  of  curiosity.  Every  new  spring  her 
own  bloom  showed  paler  beside  the  new  bloom 
of  her  flowers,  but  people  could  not  see  it. 

Some  thirty  years  after  the  Squire's  death  the 
man  John  Darby  died ;  his  wife,  a  year  later. 
That  left  Evelina  alone  with  the  old  woman  who 
had  nursed  her  mother.  She  was  very  old,  but 
not  feeble,  and  quite  able  to  perform  the  simple 
household  tasks  for  herself  and  Evelina.  An  old 
man,  who  saved  himself  from  the  almshouse  in 
such  ways,  came  daily  to  do  the  rougher  part  of 
the  garden-work  in  John  Darby's  stead.  He  was 
aged  and  decrepit ;  his  muscles  seemed  able  to 
122 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

perform  their  appointed  tasks  only  through  the 
accumulated  inertia  of  a  patiently  toilsome  life 
in  the  same  tracks.  Apparently  they  would  have 
collapsed  had  he  tried  to  force  them  to  aught 
else  than  the  holding  of  the  ploughshare,  the 
pulling  of  weeds,  the  digging  around  the  roots  of 
flowers,  and  the  planting  of  seeds. 

Every  autumn  he  seemed  about  to  totter  to  his 
fall  among  the  fading  flowers  ;  every  spring  it  was 
like  Death  himself  urging  on  the  resurrection  ; 
but  he  lived  on  year  after  year,  and  tended  well 
Evelina' s  garden,  and  the  gardens  of  other  maiden- 
women  and  widows  in  the  village.  He  was  taci 
turn,  grubbing  among  his  green  beds  as  silently 
as  a  worm,  but  now  and  then  he  warmed  a  little 
under  a  fire  of  questions  concerning  Evelina's 
garden.  "  Never  see  none  sech  flowers  in  no 
body's  garden  in  this  town,  not  sence  I  knowed 
'nough  to  tell  a  pink  from  a  piny,"  he  would 
mumble.  His  speech  was  thick  ;  his  words  were 
all  uncouthly  slurred  ;  the  expression  of  his 
whole  life  had  come  more  through  his  old  knot 
ted  hands  of  labor  than  through  his  tongue.  But 
he  would  wipe  his  forehead  with  his  shirt-sleeve 
and  lean  a  second  on  his  spade,  and  his  face 
would  change  at  the  mention  of  the  garden.  Its 
wealth  of  bloom  illumined  his  old  mind,  and  the 
roses  and  honeysuckles  and  pinks  seemed  for  a 
second  to  be  reflected  in  his  bleared  old  eyes. 

There  had  never  been  in  the  village  such  a 
123 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

garden  as  this  of  Evelina  Adams's.  All  the  old 
blooms  which  had  come  over  the  seas  with  the 
early  colonists,  and  started  as  it  were  their  own 
colony  of  flora  in  the  new  country,  flourished 
there.  The  naturalized  pinks  and  phlox  and 
hollyhocks  and  the  rest,  changed  a  little  in  color 
and  fragrance  by  the  conditions  of  a  new  climate 
and  soil,  were  all  in  Evelina's  garden,  and  no  one 
dreamed  what  they  meant  to  Evelina ;  and  she 
did  not  dream  herself,  for  her  heart  was  always  f  y 
veiled  to  her  own  eyes,  like  the  face  of  a  n 
The  roses  and  pinks,  the  poppies  and  heartVease, 
were  to  this  maiden-woman,  who  had  innocently 
and  helplessly  outgrown  her  maiden  heart,  in  the 
place  of  all  the  loves  of  life  which  she  had  missed. 
Her  affections  had  forced  an  outlet  in  roses ;  they 
exhaled  sweetness  in  pinks,  and  twined  and  clung 
in  honeysuckle-vines.  The  daffodils,  when  they 
came  up  in  the  spring,  comforted  her  like  the 
smiles  of  children ;  when  she  saw  the  first  rose, 
her  heart  leaped  as  at  the  face  of  a  lover. 

She  had  lost  the  one  way  of  human  affection,1 
but  her  feet  had  found  a  little  single  side-track 
of  love,  which  gave  her  still  a  zest  in  the  journey 
of  life.  Even  in  the  winter  Evelina  had  her  flow 
ers,  for  she  kept  those  that  would  bear  trans 
planting  in  pots,  and  all  the  sunny  windows  in 
her  house  were  gay  with  them.  She  would  also 
not  let  a  rose  leaf  fall  and  waste  in  the  garden 
soil,  or  a  sprig  of  lavender  or  thyme.  She  gath- 
124 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

ered  them  all,  and  stored  them  away  in  chests  and 
drawers  and  old  china  bowls — the  whole  house 
seemed  laid  away  in  rose  leaves  and  lavender. 
Evelina's  clothes  gave  out  at  every  motion  that 
fragrance  of  dead  flowers  which  is  like  the  fra 
grance  of  the  past,  and  has  a  sweetness  like  that 
of  sweet  memories.  Even  the  cedar  chest  where 
Evelina's  mother's  blue  bridal  array  was  stored 
had  its  till  heaped  with  rose  leaves  and  lavender. 

When  Evelina  was  nearly  seventy  years  old  the 
old  nurse  who  had  lived  with  her  her  whole  life 
died.  People  wondered  then  what  she  would  do. 
"She  can't  live  all  alone  in  that  great  house/' 
they  said.  But  she  did  live  there  alone  six 
months,  until  spring,  and  people  used  to  watch 
her  evening  lamp  when  it  was  put  out,  and  the 
morning  smoke  from  her  kitchen  chimney.  "  It 
ain't  safe  for  her  to  be  there  alone  in  that  great 
house,"  they  said. 

But  early  in  April  a  young  girl  appeared  one 
Sunday  in  the  old  Squire's  pew.  Nobody  had 
seen  her  come  to  town,  and  nobody  knew  who 
she  was  or  where  she  came  from,  but  the  old  peo 
ple  said  she  looked  just  as  Evelina  Adams  used 
to  when  she  was  young,  and  she  must  be  some 
relation.  The  old  man  who  had  used  to  look 
across  the  meeting-house  at  Evelina,  over  forty 
years  ago,  looked  across  now  at  this  young  girl, 
and  gave  a  great  start,  and  his  face  paled  under 
his  gray  beard  stubble.  His  old  wife  gave  an 
125 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

anxious,  wondering  glance  at  him,  and  crammed 
a  peppermint  into  his  hand.  "Anything  the 
matter,  father  ?"  she  whispered ;  but  he  only 
gave  his  head  a  half-surly  shake,  and  then  fas 
tened  his  eyes  straight  ahead  upon  the  pulpit, 
lie  had  reason  to  that  day,  for  his  only  son, 
Thomas,  was  going  to  preach  his  first  sermon 
therein  as  a  candidate.  His  wife  ascribed  his 
nervousness  to  that.  She  put  a  peppermint  in 
her  own  mouth  and  sucked  it  comfortably. 
"  That's  all  'tis/'  she  thought  to  herself.  "  Fa 
ther  always  was  easy  worked  up/'  and  she  looked 
proudly  up  at  her  son  sitting  on  the  hair-cloth 
sofa  in  the  pulpit,  leaning  his  handsome  young 
head  on  his  hand,  as  he  had  seen  old  divines  do. 
She  never  dreamed  that  her  old  husband  sitting 
beside  her  was  possessed  of  an  inner  life  so  strange 
to  her  that  she  would  not  have  known  him  had 
she  met  him  in  the  spirit.  And,  indeed,  it  had 
been  so  always,  and  she  had  never  dreamed  of  it. 
Although  he  had  been  faithful  to  his  wife,  the 
image  of  Evelina  Adams  in  her  youth,  and  that 
one  love-look  which  she  had  given  him,  had 
never  left  his  soul,  but  had  given  it  a  guise  and 
complexion  of  which  his  nearest  and  dearest  knew 
nothing. 

It  was  strange ;  but  now,  as  he  looked  up  at  his 

own  son  as  he  arose  in  the  pulpit,  he  could  seem 

to  see  a  look  of  that  fair  young  Evelina,  who  had 

never  had  a  son  to  inherit  her  beauty.     He  had 

126 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

certainly  a  delicate  brilliancy  of  complexion, 
which  he  could  have  gotten  directly  from  neither 
father  nor  mother  ;  and  whence  came  that  little 
nervous  frown  between  his  dark  blue  eyes  ?  His 
mother  had  blue  eyes,  but  not  like  his  ;  they 
flashed  over  the  great  pulpit  Bible  with  a  sweet 
fire  that  matched  the  memory  in  his  father's 
heart. 

But  the  old  man  put  the  fancy  away  from  him 
in  a  minute ;  it  was  one  which  his  stern  com 
mon-sense  always  overcame.  It  was  impossible 
that  Thomas  Merriam  should  resemble  Evelina 
Adams ;  indeed,  people  always  called  him  the 
very  image  of  his  father. 

The  father  tried  to  fix  his  mind  upon  his  son's 
sermon,  but  presently  he  glanced  involuntarily 
across  the  meeting-house  at  the  young  girl,  and 
again  his  heart  leaped  and  his  face  paled  ;  but  he 
turned  his  eyes  gravely  back  to  the  pulpit,  and 
his  wife  did  not  notice.  Now  and  then  she  thrust 
a  sharp  elbow  in  his  side  to  call  his  attention  to 
a  grand  point  in  their  son's  discourse.  The  odor 
of  peppermint  was  strong  in  his  nostrils,  but 
through  it  all  he  seemed  to  perceive  the  rose  and 
lavender  scent  of  Evelina  Adams's  youthful  gar 
ments.  Whether  it  was  with  him  simply  the 
memory  of  an  odor,  which  affected  him  like  the 
odor  itself,  or  not,  those  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
Squire's  pew  were  plainly  aware  of  it.  The  gown 
which  the  strange  young  girl  wore  was,  as  many 
127 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

an  old  woman  discovered  to  her  neighbor  with 
loud  whispers,  one  of  Evelina's,  which  had  been 
laid  away  in  a  sweet-smelling  chest  since  her  old 
girlhood.  It  had  been  somewhat  altered  to  suit 
the  fashion  of  a  later  day,but  the  eyes  which  had 
fastened  keenly  upon  it  when  Evelina  first  wore 
it  up  the  meeting-house  aisle  could  not  mistake 
it.  "  It's  Evelina  Adams's  lavender  satin  made 
over,"  one  whispered,  with  a  sharp  hiss  of  breath, 
in  the  other's  ear. 

The  lavender  satin,  deepening  into  purple  in 
the  folds,  swept  in  a  rich  circle  over  the  knees  of 
the  young  girl  in  the  Squire's  pew.  She  folded 
her  little  hands,  which  were  encased  in  Evelina's 
cream-colored  silk  mitts,  over  it,  and  looked  up 
at  the  young  minister,  and  listened  to  his  sermon 
with  a  grave  and  innocent  dignity,  as  Evelina 
had  done  before  her.  Perhaps  the  resemblance 
between  this  young  girl  and  the  young  girl  of  the 
past  was  more  one  of  mien  than  aught  else,  al 
though  the  type  of  face  was  the  same.  This  girl 
had  the  same  fine  sharpness  of  feature  and  deli 
cately  bright  color,  and  she  also  wore  her  hair  in 
curls,  although  they  were  tied  back  from  her  face 
with  a  black  velvet  ribbon,  and  did  not  veil  it 
when  she  drooped  her  head,  as  Evelina's  used  to 
do. 

The  people  divided  their  attention  between 
her  and  the  new  minister.  Their  curiosity  goaded 
them  in  equal  measure  with  their  spiritual  zeal, 
128 


EVELINA'S    GAKDEN 

"  I  can't  wait  to  find  out  who  that  girl  is,"  one 
woman  whispered  to  another. 

The  girl  herself  had  no  thought  of  the  com 
motion  which  she  awakened.  When  the  service 
was  over,  and  she  walked  with  a  gentle  maiden 
stateliness,  which  seemed  a  very  copy  of  Evelina's 
own,  out  of  the  meeting-house,  down  the  street 
to  the  Squire's  house,  and  entered  it,  passing 
under  the  stately  Corinthian  pillars,  with  a  last 
purple  gleam  of  her  satin  skirts,  she  never 
dreamed  of  the  eager  attention  that  followed  her. 

It  was  several  days  before  the  village  people 
discovered  who  she  was.  The  information  had 
to  be  obtained,  by  a  process  like  mental  thumb- 
screwing,  from  the  old  man  who  tended  Evelina's 
garden,  but  at  last  they  knew.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  a  cousin  of  Evelina's  on  the  father's 
side.  Her  name  was  Evelina  Leonard  ;  she  had 
been  named  for  her  father's  cousin.  She  had 
been  finely  brought  up,  and  had  attended  a  Bos 
ton  school  for  young  ladies.  Her  mother  had 
been  dead  many  years,  and  her  father  had  died 
some  two  years  ago,  leaving  her  with  only  a 
very  little  money,  which  was  now  a41  gone,  and 
Evelina  Adams  had  invited  her  to  live  with  her. 
Evelina  Adams  had  herself  told  the  old  gardener, 
seeing  his  scant  curiosity  was  somewhat  awak 
ened  by  the  sight  of  the  strange  young  lady  in 
the  garden,  but  he  seemed  to  have  almost  forgot 
ten  it  when  the  people  questioned  him, 
i  139 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

"  She'll  leave  her  all  her  money,  most  likely/' 
they  said,  and  they  looked  at  this  new  Evelina 
in  the  old  Evelina's  perfumed  gowns  with  awe. 

However,  in  the  space  of  a  few  months  the 
opinion  upon  this  matter  was  divided.  Another 
cousin  of  Evelina  Adams's  came  to  town,  and 
this  time  an  own  cousin — a  widow  in  fine  black 
bombazine,  portly  and  florid,  walking  with  a  ma 
jestic  swell,  and,  moreover,  having  with  her  two 
daughters,  girls  of  her  own  type,  not  so  far  ad 
vanced.  This  woman  hired  one  of  the  village 
cottages,  and  it  was  rumored  that  Evelina  Adams 
paid  the  rent.  Still,  it  was  considered  that  she 
was  not  very  intimate  with  these  last  relatives. 
The  neighbors  watched,  and  saw,  many  a  time, 
Mrs.  Martha  Loomis  and  her  girls  try  the  doors 
of  the  Adams  house,  scudding  around  angrily 
from  front,  to  side  and  back,  and  knock  and 
knock  again,  but  with  no  admittance.  "Eve 
lina  she  won't  let  none  of  'em  in  more'n  once  a 
week,"  the  neighbors  said.  It  was  odd  that,  al 
though  they  had  deeply  resented  Evelina's  seclu 
sion  on  their  own  accounts,  they  were  rather  on 
her  side  in  this  matter,  and  felt  a  certain  delight 
when  they  witnessed  a  crestfallen  retreat  of  the 
widow  and  her  daughters.  "I  don't  s'pose  she 
wants  them  Loomises  marchin'  in  on  her  every 
minute,"  they  said. 

The  new  Evelina  was  not  seen  much  with  the 
other  cousins,  and  she  made  no  acquaintances  in 
130 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

the  village.  Whether  she  was  to  inherit  all  the 
Adams  property  or  not,  she  seemed,  at  any  rate, 
heiress  to  all  the  elder  Evelina's  habits  of  life. 
She  worked  with  her  in  the  garden,  and  wore  her 
old  girlish  gowns,  and  kept  almost  as  close  at 
home  as  she.  She  often,  however,  walked  abroad 
in  the  early  dusk,  stepping  along  in  a  grave  and 
stately  fashion,  as  the  elder  Evelina  had  used  to 
do,  holding  her  skirts  away  from  the  dewy  road 
side  weeds,  her  face  showing  out  in  the  twilight 
like  a  white  flower,  as  if  it  had  a  pale  light  of  its 
own. 

Nobody  spoke  to  her  ;  people  turned  furtively 
after  she  had  passed  and  stared  after  her,  but 
they  never  spoke.  This  young  Evelina  did  not 
seem  to  expect  it.  She  passed  along  with  the 
lids  cast  down  over  her  blue  eyes,  and  the  rose 
and  lavender  scent  of  her  garments  came  back  in 
their  faces. 

But  one  night  when  she  was  walking  slowly 
along,  a  full  half  -  mile  from  home,  she  heard 
rapid  footsteps  behind,  and  the  young  minister, 
Thomas  Merriam,  came  up  beside  her  and  spoke. 

"Good-evening,"  said  he,  and  his  voice  was  a 
little  hoarse  through  nervousness. 

Evelina  started,  and  turned  her  fair  face  up 
towards  his.  "Good-evening,"  she  responded, 
and  courtesied  as  she  had  been  taught  at  school, 
and  stood  close  to  the  wall,  that  he  might  pass ; 
but  Thomas  Merriam  paused  also. 
131 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

"I — "  he  began,  but  his  voice  broke.  He 
cleared  his  throat  angrily,  and  went  on.  "  I  have 
seen  you  in  meeting,"  he  said,  with  a  kind  of  de 
fiance,  more  of  himself  than  of  her.  After  all, 
was  he  not  the  minister,  and  had  he  not  the  right 
to  speak  to  everybody  in  the  congregation  ?  Why 
should  he  embarrass  himself  ? 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Evelina.  She  stood  droop 
ing  her  head  before  him,  and  yet  there  was  a  cer 
tain  delicate  hauteur  about  her.  Thomas  was 
afraid  to  speak  again.  They  both  stood  silent 
for  a  moment,  and  then  Evelina  stirred  softly,  as 
if  to  pass  on,  and  Thomas  spoke  out  bravely.  "  Is 
your  cousin,  Miss  Adams,  well  ?"  said  he. 

"  She  is  pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  sir." 

"  I  have  been  wanting  to— call,"  he  began  ; 
then  he  hesitated  again.  His  handsome  young 
face  was  blushing  crimson. 

Evelina's  own  color  deepened.  She  turned  her 
face  away.  ' '  Cousin  Evelina  never  sees  callers," 
she  said,  with  grave  courtesy  ;  "perhaps  you  did 
not  know.  She  has  not  for  a  great  many  years." 

"  Yes,  I  did  know  it,"  returned  Thomas  Mer- 
riam  ;  "that's  the  reason  I  haven't  called." 

"  Cousin  Evelina  is  not  strong,"  remarked  the 
young  girl,  and  there  was  a  savor  of  apology  in 
her  tone. 

"  But — "  stammered  Thomas  ;  then  he  stopped 
again.     "  May  I — has  she  any  objections  to — any 
body's  coming  to  see  you  ?" 
118 


SIIK    HEARD    RAPID    FOOTSTEPS 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

Evelina  started.  "I  am  afraid  Cousin  Evelina 
would  not  approve/7  she  answered,  primly.  Then 
she  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  a  girlish  piteous- 
ness  came  into  her  own.  "  I  am  very  sorry,"  she 
said,  and  there  was  a  catch  in  her  voice. 

Thomas  bent  over  her  impetuously.  All  his 
ministerial  state  fell  from  him  like  an  outer  gar 
ment  of  the  soul.  He  was  young,  and  he  had 
seen  this  girl  Sunday  after  Sunday.  He  had 
written  all  his  sermons  with  her  image  before  his 
eyes,  he  had  preached  to  her,  and  her  only,  and 
she  had  come  between  his  heart  and  all  the  na 
tions  of  the  earth  in  his  prayers.  "  Oh/'  he 
stammered  out,  "  I  am  afraid  you  can't  be  very 
happy  living  there  the  way  you  do.  Tell 
me—" 

Evelina  turned  her  face  away  with  sudden 
haughtiness.  "  My  cousin  Evelina  is  very  kind 
to  me,  sir/'  she  said. 

"But — you  must  be  lonesome  with  nobody — 
of  your  own  age — to  speak  to,"  persisted  Thom 
as,  confusedly. 

"  I  never  cared  much  for  youthful  company. 
It  is  getting  dark  ;  I  must  be  going,"  said  Eve 
lina.  "  I  wish  you  good-evening,  sir." 

"  ShaVt  I  —  walk  home  with  you?"  asked 
Thomas,  falteringly. 

"  It  isn't  necessary,  thank  you,  and  I  don't 
think  Cousin  Evelina  would  approve,"  she  re 
plied,  primly  ;  and  her  light  dress  fluttered  away 
133 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

into  the  dusk  and  out  of  sight  like  the  pale  wing 
of  a  moth. 

Poor  Thomas  Merriam  walked  on  with  his  head 
in  a  turmoil.  His  heart  beat  loud  in  his  ears. 
"  Pve  made  her  mad  with  me,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  using  the  old  rustic  school-boy  vernacu 
lar,  from  which  he  did  not  always  depart  in 
his  thoughts,  although  his  ministerial  dignity 
guarded  his  conversations.  Thomas  Merriam 
came  of  a  simple  homely  stock,  whose  speech 
came  from  the  emotions  of  the  heart,  all  unregu 
lated  by  the  usages  of  the  schools.  He  was  the 
first  for  generations  who  had  aspired  to  college 
learning  and  a  profession,  and  had  trained  his 
tongue  by  the  models  of  the  educated  and  polite. 
He  could  not  help,  at  times,  the  relapse  of  his 
thoughts,  and  their  speaking  to  himself  in  the 
dialect  of  his  family  and  his  ancestors.  "  She's 
Vay  above  me,  and  I  ought  to  ha'  known  it,"  he 
further  said,  with  the  meekness  of  an  humble 
but  fiercely  independent  race,  which  is  meek  to 
itself  alone.  He  would  have  maintained  his 
equality  with  his  last  breath  to  an  opponent ;  in 
his  heart  of  hearts  he  felt  himself  below  the  scion 
of  the  one  old  gentle  family  of  his  native  village. 

This  young  Evelina,  by  the  fine  dignity  which 
had  been  born  with  her  and  not  acquired  by  pre 
cept  and  example,  by  the  sweetly  formal  diction 
which  seemed  her  native  tongue,  had  filled  him 
with  awe.  Now,  when  he  thought  she  was  an- 
134 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

gered  with  him,  he  felt  beneath  her  lady-feet,  his 
nostrils  choked  with  a  spiritual  dust  of  humilia 
tion. 

He  went  forward  blindly.  The  dusk  had  deep 
ened  ;  from  either  side  of  the  road,  from  the  mys 
terious  gloom  of  the  bushes,  came  the  twangs  of 
the  katydids,  like  some  coarse  rustic  quarrellers, 
each  striving  for  the  last  word  in  a  dispute  not 
even  dignified  by  excess  of  passion. 

Suddenly  somebody  jostled  him  to  his  own  side 
of  the  path.  "That  you,  Thomas?  Where  you 
been  ?"  said  a  voice  in  his  ear. 

' '  That  you,  father  ?    Down  to  the  post-office." 

"  Who  was  that  you  was  talkin'  with  back 
there  ?" 

"Miss  Evelina  Leonard." 

"That  girl  that's  stayin'  there— to  the  old 
Squire's  ?" 

"  Yes."  The  son  tried  to  move  on,  but  his 
father  stood  before  him  dumbly  for  a  minute. 
"  I  must  be  going,  father.  I've  got  to  work  on 
my  sermon,"  Thomas  said,  impatiently. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  his  father.  "  I've  got 
something  to  say  to  ye,  Thomas,  an'  this  is  as 
good  a  time  to  say  it  as  any.  There  ain't  any 
body  'round.  I  don't  know  as  ye'll  thank  me  for 
it — but  mother  said  the  other  day  that  she  thought 
you'd  kind  of  an  idea — she  said  you  asked  her  if 
she  thought  it  would  be  anything  out  of  the  way 
for  you  to  go  up  to  the  Squire's  to  make  a  call. 
135 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

Mother  she  thinks  you  can  step  in  anywheres,  but 
I  don't  know.  I  know  your  book-learnin'  and 
your  bein'  a  minister  has  set  you  up  a  good  deal 
higher  than  your  mother  and  me  and  any  of  our 
folks,  and  I  feel  as  if  you  were  good  enough  for 
anybody,  as  far  as  that  goes  ;  but  that  ain't  all. 
Some  folks  have  different  startin'-pomts  in  this 
world,  and  they  see  things  different ;  and  when 
they  do,  it  ain't  much  use  tryin'  to  make  them 
walk  alongside  and  see  things  alike.  Their  eyes 
have  got  different  cants,  and  they  ain't  able  to 
help  it.  Now  this  girl  she's  related  to  the  old 
Squire,  and  she's  been  brought  up  different,  and 
she  started  ahead,  even  if  her  father  did  lose  all 
his  property.  She  'ain't  never  eat  in  the  kitchen, 
nor  been  scart  to  set  down  in  the  parlor,  and  satin 
and  velvet,  and  silver  spoons,  and  cream -pots 
'ain't  never  looked  anything  out  of  the  common 
to  her,  and  they  always  will  to  you.  No  matter 
how  many  such  things  you  may  live  to  have, 
they'll  always  get  a  little  the  better  of  ye.  She'll 
be  'way  above  'em ;  and  you  won't,  no  matter 
how  hard  you  try.  Some  ideas  can't  never  mix  ; 
and  when  ideas  can't  mix,  folks  can't." 

"  I  never  said  they  could,"  returned  Thomas, 
shortly.  "  I  can't  stop  to  talk  any  longer,  father. 
I  must  go  home." 

"  No,  you  wait  a  minute,  Thomas.  I'm  goin' 
to  say  out  what  I  started  to,  and  then  I  sha'n't 
ever  bring  it  up  again.  What  I  was  comiii'  at 
136 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

was  this  :  I  wanted  to  warn  ye  a  little.  You 
musn't  set  too  much  store  by  little  things  that 
you  think  mean  considerable  when  they  don't. 
Looks  don't  count  for  much,  and  I  want  you  to 
remember  it,  and  not  be  upset  by  'em." 

Thomas  gave  a  great  start,  and  colored  high. 
"  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  mean,  father,"  he 
cried,  sharply. 

"  Nothin'.  I  don't  mean  nothin',  only  Fm 
older  'n  you,  and  it's  come  in  rny  way  to  know 
some  things,  and  it's  fittin'  you  should  profit  by 
it.  A  young  woman's  looks  at  you  don't  count 
for  much.  I  don't  s'pose  she  knows  why  she 
gives  'em  herself  half  the  time  ;  they  ain't  like 
us.  It's  best  you  should  make  up  your  mind  to 
it  ;  if  you  don't,  you  may  find  it  out  by  the  hard 
est.  That's  all.  I  ain't  never  goin'  to  bring  this 
up  again." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  mean,  father." 
Thomas's  voice  shook  with  embarrassment  and 
anger. 

({  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  anything  more  about  it," 
replied  the  old  man.  '•"  Mary  Ann  Pease  and 
Arabella  Mann  are  both  in  the  settin'-room  with 
your  mother.  I  thought  I'd  tell  ye,  in  case  ye 
didn't  want  to  see  'em,  and  wanted  to  go  to  work 
on  your  sermon." 

Thomas  made  an  impatient  ejaculation  as  he 
strode  off.  When  he  reached  the  large  white 
house  where  he  lived  he  skirted  it  carefully.  The 
137 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

chirping  treble  of  girlish  voices  came  from  the 
open  sitting-room  window,  and  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  smooth  brown  head  and  a  high  shell 
comb  in  front  of  the  candle-light.  The  young 
minister  tiptoed  in  the  back  door  and  across  the 
kitchen  to  the  back  stairs.  The  sitting-room 
door  was  open,  and  the  candle-light  streamed 
out,  and  the  treble  voices  rose  high.  Thomas, 
advancing  through  the  dusky  kitchen  with  cau 
tious  steps,  encountered  suddenly  a  chair  in  the 
dark  corner  by  the  stairs,  and  just  saved  himself 
from  falling.  There  was  a  startled  outcry  from 
the  sitting-room,  and  his  mother  came  running 
into  the  kitchen  with  a  candle. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  she  demanded,  valiantly.  Then 
she  started  and  gasped  as  her  son  confronted  her. 
He  shook  a  furious  warning  fist  at  the  sitting- 
room  door  and  his  mother,  and  edged  towards 
the  stairs.  She  followed  him  close.  "  Hadn't 
you  better  jest  step  in  a  minute  ?"  she  whispered. 
"  Them  girls  have  been  here  an  hour,  and  I  know 
they're  waitin'  to  see  you."  Thomas  shook  his 
head  fiercely,  and  swung  himself  around  the  cor 
ner  into  the  dark  crook  of  the  back  stairs.  His 
mother  thrust  the  candle  into  his  hand.  "  Take 
this,  or  you'll  break  your  neck  on  them  stairs," 
she  whispered. 

Thomas,  stealing  up  the  stairs  like  a  cat,  heard 
one  of  the  girls  call  to  his  mother — "  Is  it  rob 
bers,  Mis'  Merriam  ?  Want  us  to  come  an'  help 
138 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

tackle  'em  ?" — and  he  fairly  shuddered  ;  for  Eve 
lina's  gentle-lady  speech  was  still  in  his  ears,  and 
this  rude  girlish  call  seemed  to  jar  upon  his  sen 
sibilities. 

"  The  idea  of  any  girl  screeching  out  like  that," 
he  muttered.  And  if  he  had  carried  speech  as 
far  as  his  thought,  he  would  have  added,  "  when 
Evelina  is  a  girl !" 

lie  was  so  angry  that  he  did  not  laugh  when 
he  heard  his  mother  answer  back,  in  those  con 
clusive  tones  of  hers  that  were  wont  to  silence  all 
argument:  "  It  ain't  anything.  Don't  be  scared. 
I'm  coming  right  back."  Mrs.  Merriam  scorned 
subterfuges.  She  took  always  a  silent  stand  in 
a  difficulty,  and  let  people  infer  what  they  would. 
When  Mary  Ann  Pease  inquired  if  it  was  the  cat 
that  had  made  the  noise,  she  asked  if  her  mother 
had  finished  her  blue  and  white  counterpane. 

The  two  girls  waited  a  half-hour  longer,  then 
they  went  home.  "What  do  you  s'pose  made 
that  noise  out  in  the  kitchen  ?"  asked  Arabella 
Mann  of  Mary  Ann  Pease,  the  minute  they  were 
out-of-doors. 

" I  don't  know, "replied  Mary  Ann  Pease.  She 
was  a  broad-backed  young  girl,  and  looked  like  a 
matron  as  she  hurried  along  in  the  dusk. 

<{  Well,  I  know  what  I  think  it  was,"  said  Ara 
bella  Mann,  moving  ahead  with  sharp  jerks  of 
her  little  dark  body. 

"What?" 

139 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

"  It  was  him." 

"You  don't  mean—" 

"  I  think  it  was  Thomas  Merriam,  and  he  was 
tryin'  to  get  up  the  back  stairs  unbeknownst  to 
anybody,  and  he  run  into  something." 

"  What  for  ?" 

"  Because  he  didn't  want  to  see  us." 

"  Now,  Arabella  Mann,  I  don't  believe  it !  He's 
always  real  pleasant  to  me." 

"Well,  I  do  believe  it,  and  I  guess  he'll  know 
it  when  I  set  foot  in  that  house  again.  I  guess 
he'll  find  out  I  didn't  go  there  to  see  him  ! 
He  needn't  feel  so  fine,  if  he  is  the  minister  ;  his 
folks  ain't  any  better  than  mine,  an'  we've  got 
'nough  sight  handsomer  furniture  in  our  parlor." 

"Did  you  see  how  the  tallow  had  all  run  down 
over  the  candles  ?" 

"Yes,  I  did.  She  gave  that  candle  she  carried 
out  in  the  kitchen  to  him,  too.  Mother  says  she 
wasn't  never  any  kind  of  a  housekeeper." 

"  Hush  !  Arabella  :  here  he  is  coming  now." 

But  it  was  not  Thomas ;  it  was  his  father,  ad 
vancing  through  the  evening  with  his  son's  gait 
and  carriage.  When  the  two  girls  discovered 
that,  one  tittered  out  quite  audibly,  and  they 
scuttled  past.  They  were  not  rivals  ;  they  simply 
walked  faithfully  side  by  side  in  pursuit  of  the 
young  minister,  giving  him  as  it  were  an  impar 
tial  choice.  There  were  even  no  heart-burnings 
between  them ;  one  always  confided  in  the  other 
140 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

when  she  supposed  herself  to  have  found  some 
slight  favor  in  Thomas's  sight  ;  and,  indeed,  the 
young  minister  could  scarcely  bow  to  one  upon 
the  street  unless  she  flew  to  the  other  with  the 
news. 

Thomas  Merriam  himself  was  aware  of  all  this 
devotion  on  the  part  of  the  young  women  of  his 
flock,  and  it  filled  him  with  a  sort  of  angry 
shame.  He  could  not  have  told  why,  but  he  de 
spised  himself  for  being  the  object  of  their  atten 
tion  more  than  he  despised  them.  His  heart 
sank  at  the  idea  of  Evelina's  discovering  it. 
What  would  she  think  of  him  if  she  knew  all 
those  young  women  haunted  his  house  and  lagged 
after  meeting  on  the  chance  of  getting  a  word 
from  him  ?  Suppose  she  should  see  their  eyes 
upon  his  face  in  meeting  time,  and  decipher  their 
half-unconscious  boldness,  as  he  had  done  against 
his  will.  Once  Evelina  had  looked  at  him,  even 
as  the  older  Evelina  had  looked  at  his  father,  and 
all  other  looks  of  maidens  seemed  to  him  like 
profanations  of  that,  even  although  he  doubted 
afterwards  that  he  had  rightly  interpreted  it. 
Full  it  had  seemed  to  him  of  that  tender  maiden 
surprise  and  wonder,  of  that  love  that  knows  not 
itself,  and  sees  its  own  splendor  for  the  first  time 
in  another's  face,  and  flees  at  the  sight.  It  had 
happened  once  when  he  was  coming  down  the 
aisle  after  the  sermon  and  Evelina  had  met  him 
at  the  door  of  her  pew.  But  she  had  turned  her 
141 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

head  quickly,  and  her  soft  curls  flowed  over  her 
red  cheek,  and  he  doubted  ever  after  if  he  had 
read  the  look  aright.  When  he  had  gotten  the 
courage  to  speak  to  her,  and  she  had  met  him 
with  the  gentle  coldness  which  she  had  learned 
of  her  lady  aunt  and  her  teacher  in  Boston,  his 
doubt  was  strong  upon  him.  The  next  Sunday 
be  looked  not  her  way  at  all.  He  even  tried 
faithfully  from  day  to  day  to  drive  her  image 
from  his  mind  with  prayer  and  religious  thoughts, 
but  in  spite  of  himself  he  would  lapse  into  dreams 
about  her,  as  if  borne  by  a  current  of  nature  too 
strong  to  be  resisted.  And  sometimes,  upon  be 
ing  awakened  from  them,  as  he  sat  over  his  ser 
mon  with  the  ink  drying  on  his  quill,  by  the 
sudden  outburst  of  treble  voices  in  his  mother's 
sitting-room  below,  the  fancy  would  seize  him 
that  possibly  these  other  young  damsels  took 
fond  liberties  with  him  in  their  dreams,  as  he 
with  Evelina,  and  he  resented  it  with  a  fierce 
maidenliness  of  spirit,  although  he  was  a  man. 
The  thought  that  possibly  they,  over  their  spin 
ning  or  their  quilting,  had  in  their  hearts  the 
image  of  himself  with  fond  words  upon  his  lips 
and  fond  looks  in  his  eyes,  filled  him  with  shame 
and  rage,  although  he  took  the  same  liberty  with 
the  delicately  haughty  maiden  Evelina. 

But  Thomas  Merriam  was  not  given  to  undue 
appreciation  of  his  own  fascination,  as  was  proved 
by  his  ready  discouragement  in  the  case  of  Eve- 
143 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

lina.  He  bad  the  knowledge  of  his  conquests 
forced  upon  his  understanding  until  he  could  no 
longer  evade  it.  Every  day  were  offerings  laid 
upon  his  shrine,  of  pound-cakes  and  flaky  pies, 
and  loaves  of  white  bread,  and  cups  of  jelly, 
whereby  the  culinary  skill  of  his  devotees  might 
be  proved.  Silken  purses  and  beautiful  socks 
knitted  with  fancy  stitches,  and  holy  book-marks 
for  his  Bible,  and  even  a  wonderful  bedquilt,  and 
a  fine  linen  shirt  with  hem-stitched  bands,,  poured 
in  upon  him.  He  burned  with  angry  blushes 
when  his  mother,  smiling  meaningly,  passed 
them  over  to  him.  "Put  them  away,  mother  ;  I 
don't  want  them/'  he  would  growl  out,  in  a  dis 
tress  that  was  half  comic  and  half  pathetic.  lie 
would  never  taste  of  the  tempting  viands  which 
were  brought  to  him.  "How  you  act,  Thomas  !'' 
his  mother  would  say.  She  was  secretly  elated 
by  these  feminine  libations  upon  the  altar  of  her 
son.  They  did  not  grate  upon  her  sensibilities, 
which  were  not  delicate.  She  even  tried  to  assist 
two  or  three  of  the  young  women  in  their  designs ; 
she  would  often  praise  them  and  their  handiwork 
to  her  son — and  in  this  she  was  aided  by  an  old 
woman  aunt  of  hers  who  lived  with  the  family. 
"  Nancy  Winslow  is  as  handsome  a  girl  as  ever  I 
set  eyes  on,  an'  I  never  see  any  nicer  sewm'/' 
Mrs.  Merriam  said,  after  the  advent  of  the  linen 
shirt,  and  she  held  it  up  to  the  light  admiringly. 
"Jest  look  at  that  hem-stitchin' !"  she  said, 
143 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

"I  guess  whoever  made  that  shirt  calkilated 
'twould  do  for  a  weddin'  one,"  said  old  Aunt 
Betty  Green,  and  Thomas  made  an  exclamation 
and  went  out  of  the  room,  tingling  all  over  with 
shame  and  disgust. 

"  Thomas  don't  act  nateral,"  said  the  old  wom 
an,  glancing  after  him  through  her  iron-bound 
spectacles. 

"  I  dun'no'  what's  got  into  him,"  returned  his 
mother. 

"  Mebbe  they  foller  him  up  a  leetle  too  close," 
said  Aunt  Betty.  (f  I  dun'no'  as  I  should  have 
ventured  on  a  shirt  when  I  was  a  gal.  I  made  a 
satin  vest  once  for  Joshua,  but  that  don't  seem 
quite  as  p'inted  as  a  shirt.  It  didn't  scare 
Joshua,  nohow.  He  asked  me  to  have  him  the 
next  week." 

"  Well,  I  dun'no',"  said  Mrs.  Merriam  again. 
"I  kind  of  wish  Thomas  would  settle  on  some 
body,  for  I'm  pestered  most  to  death  with  'em, 
an'  I  feel  as  if  'twas  kind  of  mean  takin'  all  these 
things  into  the  house." 

"  They've  'bout  kept  ye  in  sweet  cake,  'ain't 
they,  lately  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  I  don't  feel  as  if  it  was  jest  right 
for  us  to  eat  it  up,  when  'twas  brought  for  Thom 
as.  But  he  won't  touch  it.  I  can't  see  as  he 
has  the  least  idee  of  any  one  of  them.  I  don't 
believe  Thomas  has  ever  seen  anybody  he  wanted 
for  a  wife." 

144 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

"  Well,  he's  got  the  pick  of  'em,  a-settin'  their 
caps  right  in  his  face/'  said  Aunt  Betty. 

Neither  of  them  dreamed  how  the  young  man, 
sleeping  and  eating  and  living  under  the  same 
roof,  beloved  of  them  since  he  entered  the  world, 
holding  himself  coldly  aloof  from  this  crowd  of 
half -innocently,  half -boldly  ardent  young  women, 
had  set  up  for  himself  his  own  divinity  of  love,  be 
fore  whom  he  consumed  himself  in  vain  worship. 
His  father  suspected,  and  that  was  all,  and  he 
never  mentioned  the  matter  again  to  his  son. 

After  Thomas  had  spoken  to  Evelina  the  weeks 
went  on,  and  they  never  exchanged  another  word, 
and  their  eyes  never  met.  But  they  dwelt  con 
stantly  within  each  other's  thoughts,  and  were 
ever  present  to  each  other's  spiritual  Vision.  Al 
ways  as  the  young  minister  bent  over  his  sermon- 
paper,  laboriously  tracing  out  with  sputtering 
quill  his  application  of  the  articles  of  the  ortho 
dox  faith,  Evelina's  blue  eyes  seemed  to  look  out 
at  him  between  the  stern  doctrines  like  the  eyes 
of  an  angel.  And  he  could  not  turn  the  pages 
of  the  Holy  Writ  unless  he  found  some  passage 
therein  which  to  his  mind  treated  directly  of  her, 
setting  forth  her  graces  like  a  prophecy.  "  The 
fairest  among  women,"  read  Thomas  Merriam, 
and  nodded  his  head,  while  his  heart  leaped  with 
the  satisfied  delight  of  all  its  fancies,  at  the  image 
of  his  love's  fair  and  gentle  face.  "  Her  price 
is  far  above  rubies,"  read  Thomas  Merriam,  and 
K  145 


EVELINA'S    GAKDEN 

he  nodded  his  head  again,  and  saw  Evelina  shin 
ing  as  with  gold  and  pearls,  more  precious  than 
all  the  jewels  of  the  earth.  In  spite  of  all  his  ef 
forts,  when  Thomas  Merriam  studied  the  Script- 
nres  in  those  days  he  was  more  nearly  touched 
by  those  old  human  hearts  which  throbbed  down 
to  his  through  the  ages,  welding  the  memories 
of  their  old  loves  to  his  living  one  until  they 
seemed  to  prove  its  eternity,  than  by  the  Messian 
ic  prophecies.  Often  he  spent  hours  upon  his 
knees,  but  arose  with  Evelina's  face  before  his 
very  soul  in  spite  of  all. 

And  as  for  Evelina,  she  tended  the  flowers  in 
the  elder  Evelina's  garden  with  her  poor  cousin, 
whose  own  love-dreams  had  been  illustrated  as  it 
were  by  the  pinks  and  lilies  blooming  around 
them  when  they  had  all  gone  out  of  her  heart, 
and  Thomas  Merriam's  half -bold,  half -imploring 
eyes  looked  up  at  her  out  of  every  flower  and 
stung  her  heart  like  bees.  Poor  young  Evelina 
feared  much  lest  she  had  offended  Thomas,  and 
yet  her  own  maiden  decorum  had  been  offended 
by  him,  and  she  had  offended  it  herself,  and  she 
was  faint  with  shame  and  distress  when  she 
thought  of  it.  How  had  she  been  so  bold  and 
shameless  as  to  give  him  that  look  in  the  meet 
ing-house  ?  and  how  had  he  been  so  cruel  as  to 
accost  her  afterwards  ?  She  told  herself  she  had 
done  right  for  the  maintenance  of  her  own 
maiden  dignity,  and  yet  she  feared  lest  she  had 
146 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

angered  him  and  hurt  him.  "  Suppose  he  had 
been  fretted  by  her  coolness  ?"  she  thought,  and 
then  a  great  wave  of  tender  pity  went  over  her 
heart,  and  she  would  almost  have  spoken  to  him 
of  her  own  accord.  But  then  she  would  reflect 
how  he  continued  to  write  such  beautiful  ser 
mons,  and  prove  so  clearly  and  logically  the  tenets 
of  the  faith ;  and  how  could  he  do  that  with  a 
mind  in  distress  ?  Scarcely  could  she  herself 
tend  the  flower-beds  as  she  should,  nor  set  her 
embroidery  stitches  finely  and  evenly,  she  was  so 
ill  at  ease.  It  must  be  that  Thomas  had  not 
given  the  matter  an  hour's  worry,  since  he  con 
tinued  to  do  his  work  so  faithfully  and  well.  And 
then  her  own  heart  would  be  sorer  than  ever  with 
the  belief  that  his  was  happy  and  at  rest,  although 
she  would  chide  herself  for  it. 

And  yet  this  young  Evelina  was  a  philosopher 
and  an  analyst  of  human  nature  in  a  small  way, 
and  she  got  some  slight  comfort  out  of  a  shrewd 
suspicion  that  the  heart  of  a  man  might  love  and 
suffer  on  a  somewhat  different  principle  from  the 
heart  of  a  woman.  "  It  may  be,"  thought  Eve 
lina,  sitting  idle  over  her  embroidery  with  far 
away  blue  eyes,  "  that  a  man's  heart  can  always 
turn  a  while  from  love  to  other  things  as  weighty 
and  serious,  although  he  be  just  as  fond,  while  a 
woman's  heart  is  always  fixed  one  way  by  loving, 
and  cannot  be  turned  unless  it  breaks.  And  it 
may  be  wise,"  thought  young  Evelina,  "else  how 
147 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

conld  the  state  be  maintained  and  governed,  bat 
tles  for  independence  be  fought,  and  even  sonls 
be  saved,  and  the  gospel  carried  to  the  heathen, 
if  men  could  not  turn  from  the  concerns  of  their 
own  hearts  more  easily  than  women  ?  Women 
should  be  patient/7  thought  Evelina,  "  and  con 
sider  that  if  they  suffer  'tis  due  to  the  lot  which 
a  wise  Providence  has  given  them."  And  yet 
tears  welled  up  in  her  earnest  blue  eyes  and  fell 
over  her  fair  cheeks  and  wet  the  embroidery — 
when  the  elder  Evelina  was  not  looking,  as  she 
seldom  was.  The  elder  Evelina  was  kind  to 
her  young  cousin,  but  there  were  days  when 
she  seemed  to  dwell  alone  in  her  own  thoughts, 
apart  from  the  whole  world,  and  she  seldom 
spoke  either  to  Evelina  or  her  old  servant- 
man. 

Young  Evelina,  trying  to  atone  for  her  former 
indiscretion  and  establish  herself  again  on  her 
height  of  maiden  reserve  in  Thomas  Merriam's 
eyes,  sat  resolutely  in  the  meeting-house  of  a 
Sabbath  day,  with  her  eyes  cast  down,  and  after 
service  she  glided  swiftly  down  the  aisle  and  was 
out  of  the  door  before  the  young  minister  could 
much  more  than  descend  the  pulpit  stairs,  unless 
he  ran  an  indecorous  race. 

And  young  Evelina  never  at  twilight  strolled 

up  the  road  in  the  direction  of  Thomas  Merriam's 

home,  where  she  might  quite  reasonably  hope  to 

meet  him,  since  he  was  wont  to  go  to  the  store 

148 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

when  the  evening  stage-coach  came  in  with  the 
mail  from  Boston. 

Instead  she  paced  the  garden  paths,  or,  when 
there  was  not  too  heavy  a  dew,  rambled  across 
the  fields  ;  and  there  was  also  a  lane  Avhere  she 
loved  to  walk.  Whether  or  not  Thomas  Merriam 
suspected  this,  or  had  ever  seen,  as  he  passed  the 
mouth  of  the  lane,  the  nutter  of  maidenly  dra 
peries  in  the  distance,  it  so  happened  that  one 
evening  he  also  went  a-walking  there,  and  met 
Evelina.  He  had  entered  the  lane  from  the 
highway,  and  she  from  the  fields  tit  the  head.  So 
he  saw  her  first  afar  off,  and  could  not  tell  fairly 
whether  her  light  muslin  skirt  might  not  be  only  a 
white  flowering  bush.  For,  since  his  outlook  upon 
life  had  been  so  full  of  Evelina,  he  had  found 
that  often  the  most  common  and  familiar  things 
would  wear  for  a  second  a  look  of  her  to  startle 
him.  And  many  a  time  his  heart  had  leaped  at 
the  sight  of  a  white  bush  ahead  stirring  softly  in 
the  evening  wind,  and  he  had  thought  it  might 
be  she.  Now  he  said  to  himself  impatiently  that 
this  was  only  another  fancy ;  but  soon  he  saw 
that  it  was  indeed  Evelina,  in  a  light  muslin 
gown,  with  a  little  lace  kerchief  on  her  head. 
His  handsome  young  face  was  white ;  his  lips 
twitched  nervously  ;  but  he  reached  out  and 
pulled  a  spray  of  white  flowers  from  a  bush,  and 
swung  it  airily  to  hide  his  agitation  as  he  ad 
vanced. 

149 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

As  for  Evelina,  when  she  first  espied  Thomas 
she  started  and  half  turned,  as  if  to  go  back ; 
then  she  held  up  her  white  kerchiefed  head  with 
gentle  pride  and  kept  on.  When  she  came  up  to 
Thomas  she  walked  so  far  to  one  side  that  her 
muslin  skirt  was  in  danger  of  catching  and  tear 
ing  on  the  bushes,  and  she  never  raised  her  eyes, 
and  not  a  flicker  of  recognition  stirred  her  sweet 
pale  face  as  she  passed  him. 

But  Thomas  started  as  if  she  had  struck  him, 
and  dropped  his  spray  of  white  flowers,  and  could 
not  help  a  smothered  cry  that  was  half  a  sob,  as 
he  went  on,  knocking  blindly  against  the  bushes, 
lie  went  a  little  way,  then  he  stopped  and  looked 
back  with  his  piteous  hurt  eyes.  And  Evelina 
had  stopped  also,  and  she  had  the  spray  of  white 
flowers  which  he  had  dropped,  in  her  hand,  and 
her  eyes  met  his.  Then  she  let  the  flowers  fall 
again,  and  clapped  both  her  little  hands  to  her 
face  to  cover  it,  and  turned  to  rim  ;  but  Thomas 
was  at  her  side,  and  he  put  out  his  hand  and 
held  her  softly  by  her  white  arm. 

"  Oh,"  he  panted,  "I — did  not  mean  to  be — 
too  presuming,  and  offend  you.     I — crave  your 
pardon- 
Evelina  had  recovered  herself.    She  stood  with 
her  little  hands  clasped,  and  her  eyes  cast  down 
before  him;  but  not  a  quiver  stirred  her  pale  face, 
which  seemed  turned  to  marble  by  this  last  effort 
of  her  maiden  pride.     "  I  have  nothing  to  par- 
150 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

don/'  said  she.  "  It  was  I,  whose  bold  behavior, 
unbecoming  a  modest  and  well -trained  young 
woman,  gave  rise  to  what  seemed  like  presump 
tion  on  your  part."  The  sense  of  justice  was 
strong  within  her,  but  she  made  her  speech 
haughtily  and  primly,  as  if  she  had  learned  it  by 
rote  from  some  maiden  school  -  mistress,  and 
pulled  her  arm  away  and  turned  to  go ;  but 
Thomas's  words  stopped  her. 

"Not  —  unbecoming  if  it  came  —  from  the 
heart,"  said  he,  brokenly,  scarcely  daring  to 
speak,  and  yet  not  daring  to  be  silent. 

Then  Evelina  turned  on  him,  with  a  sudden 
strange  pride  that  lay  beneath  all  other  pride, 
and  was  of  a  nobler  and  truer  sort.  '•"  Do  you 
think  I  would  have  given  you  the  look  that  I  did 
if  it  had  not  come  from  my  heart  ?''  she  demanded. 
"  What  did  you  take  me  to  be — false  and  a  jilt  ? 
I  may  be  a  forward  young  woman,  who  has  over 
stepped  the  bounds  of  maidenly  decorum,  and  I 
shall  never  get  over  the  shame  of  it,  but  I  am 
truthful,  and  I  am  no  jilt."  The  brilliant  color 
flamed  out  on  Evelina's  cheeks.  Her  blue  eyes 
met  Thomas's  with  that  courage  of  innocence 
and  nature  which  dares  all  shame.  But  it  was 
only  for  a  second  ;  the  tears  sprung  into  them. 
"  I  beg  you  to  let  me  go  home,"  she  said,  piti 
fully  ;  but  Thomas  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and 
pressed  her  troubled  maiden  face  against  his 
breast. 

151 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

"  Oil,  I  love  yon  so  !"  he  whispered — "  I  love 
yon  so,  Evelina,  and  I  was  afraid  you  were  angry 
with  me  for  it." 

"  And  I  was  afraid/'  she  faltered,  half  weep 
ing  and  half  shrinking  from  him,  "  lest  you  were 
angry  with  me  for  betraying  the  state  of  my  feel 
ings,  when  you  could  not  return  them."  And 
even  then  she  used  that  gentle  formality  of  ex 
pression  with  which  she  had  been  taught  by  her 
maiden  preceptors  to  veil  decorously  her  most 
ardent  emotions.  And,  in  truth,  her  training 
stood  her  in  good  stead  in  other  ways ;  for  she 
presently  commanded,  with  that  mild  dignity  of 
hers  which  allowed  of  no  remonstrance,  that 
Thomas  should  take  away  his  arm  from  her  waist, 
and  give  her  no  more  kisses  for  that  time. 

"  It  is  not  becoming  for  any  one,"  said  she, 
' ( and  much  less  for  a  minister  of  the  gospel.  And 
as  for  myself,  I  know  not  what  Mistress  Perkins 
would  say  to  me.  She  has  a  mind  much  above 
me,  I  fear." 

"  Mistress  Perkins  is  enjoying  her  mind  in 
Boston,"  said  Thomas  Merriam,  with  the  laugh 
of  a  triumphant  young  lover. 

But  Evelina  did  not  laugh.  "  It  might  be  well 
for  both  you  and  me  if  she  were  here,"  said  she, 
seriously.  However,  she  tempered  a  little  her 
decorous  following  of  Mistress  Perkins's  precepts, 
and  she  and  Thomas  went  hand  in  hand  up  the 
lane  and  across  the  fields. 
152 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

There  was  no  dew  that  night,  and  the  moon 
was  full.  It  was  after  nine  o'clock  when  Thomas 
left  her  at  the  gate  in  the  fence  which  separated 
Evelina  Adams's  garden  from  the  field,  and 
watched  her  disappear  between  the  flowers.  The 
moon  shone  full  on  the  garden.  Evelina  walked 
as  it  were  over  a  silver  dapple,  which  her  light 
gown  seemed  to  brush  away  and  dispel  for  a  mo 
ment.  The  bushes  stood  in  sweet  mysterious 
clumps  of  shadow. 

Evelina  had  almost  reached  the  house,  and  was 
close  to  the  great  althea  bush,  which  cast  a  wide 
circle  of  shadow,  when  it  seemed  suddenly  to 
separate  and  move  into  life. 

The  elder  Evelina  stepped  out  from  the  shadow 
of  the  bush.  <f  Is  that  you,  Evelina  ?"  she  said, 
in  her  soft  melancholy  voice,  which  had  in  it  a 
nervous  vibration. 

"  Yes,  Cousin  Evelina." 

The  elder  Evelina's  pale  face,  drooped  about 
with  gray  curls,  had  an  unfamiliar,  almost  un 
canny,  look  in  the  moonlight,  and  might  have 
been  the  sorrowful  visage  of  some  marble  nymph, 
lovelorn,  with  unceasing  grace.  "Who  —  was 
with  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"  The  minister,"  replied  young  Evelina. 

"  Did  he  meet  you  ?" 

"He  met  me  in  the  lane,  Cousin  Evelina." 

"And  he  walked  home  with  you  across  the 
field  ?" 

153 


EVELINA'S    GAKDEN 

"  Yes,  Cousin  Evelina." 

Then  the  two  entered  the  house,  and  nothing 
more  was  said  about  the  matter.  Young  Eve 
lina  and  Thomas  Merriam  agreed  that  their  affec 
tion  was  to  be  kept  a  secret  for  a  while.  "  For," 
said  young  Evelina,  "I  cannot  leave  Cousin  Eve 
lina  yet  a  while,  and  I  cannot  have  her  pestered 
with  thinking  about  it,  at  least  before  another 
spring,  when  she  has  the  garden  fairly  growing 
again." 

' '  That  is  nearly  a  whole  year  ;  it  is  August 
now/'  said  Thomas,  half  reproachfully,  and  he 
tightened  his  clasp  of  Evelina's  slender  fin 
gers. 

"  I  cannot  help  that,"  replied  Evelina.  "  It 
is  for  you  to  show  Christian  patience  more  than 
I,  Thomas.  If  you  could  have  seen  poor  Coasin 
Evelina,  as  I  have  seen  her,  through  the  long 
winter  days,  when  her  garden  is  dead,  and  she 
has  only  the  few  plants  in  her  window  left  ! 
When  she  is  not  watering  and  tending  them  she 
sits  all  day  in  the  window  and  looks  out  over  the 
garden  and  the  naked  bushes  and  the  withered 
flower-stalks.  She  used  not  to  be  so,  but  would 
read  her  Bible  and  good  books,  and  busy  herself 
somewhat  over  fine  needle-work,  and  at  one  time 
she  was  compiling  a  little  floral  book,  giving  a 
list  of  the  flowers,  and  poetical  selections  and  sen 
timents  appropriate  to  each.  That  was  her  pas 
time  for  three  winters,  and  it  is  now  nearly  done  ; 
154 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

but  she  has  given  that  up,  and  all  the  rest,  and 
sits  there  in  the  window  and  grows  older  and 
feebler  until  spring.  It  is  only  I  who  can  divert 
her  mind,  by  reading  aloud  to  her  and  singing ; 
and  sometimes  I  paint  the  flowers  she  loves  the 
best  on  card-board  with  water-colors.  I  have  a 
poor  skill  in  it,  but  Cousin  Evelina  can  tell  which 
flower  I  have  tried  to  represent,  and  it  pleases 
her  greatly.  I  have  even  seen  her  smile.  No,  I 
cannot  leave  her,  nor  even  pester  her  with  telling 
her  before  another  spring,  and  you  must  wait, 
Thomas,"  said  young  Evelina. 

And  Thomas  agreed,  as  he  was  likely  to  do  to 
all  which  she  proposed  which  touched  not  his 
own  sense  of  right  and  honor.  Young  Evelina 
gave  Thomas  one  more  kiss  for  his  earnest  plead 
ing,  and  that  night  wrote  out  the  tale  in  her  jour 
nal.  "  It  may  be  that  I  overstepped  the  bounds 
of  maidenly  decorum,"  wrote  Evelina,  "  but  my 
heart  did  so  entreat  me,"  and  no  blame  whatever 
did  she  lay  upon  Thomas. 

Young  Evelina  opened  her  heart  only  to  her 
journal,  and  her  cousin  was  told  nothing,  and 
had  little  cause  for  suspicion.  Thomas  Merriam 
never  came  to  the  house  to  see  his  sweetheart ; 
he  never  walked  home  with  her  from  meeting. 
Both  were  anxious  to  avoid  village  gossip,  until 
the  elder  Evelina  could  be  told. 

Often  in  the  summer  evenings  the  lovers  met, 
and  strolled  hand  in  hand  across  the  fields,  and 
155 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

parted  at  the  garden  gate  with  the  one  kiss  which 
Evelina  allowed,  and  that  was  all. 

Sometimes  when  young  Evelina  came  in  with 
her  lover's  kiss  still  warm  upon  her  lips  the  elder 
Evelina  looked  at  her  wistfully,  with  a  strange 
retrospective  expression  in  her  blue  eyes,  as  if  she 
were  striving  to  remember  something  that  the 
girl's  face  called  to  mind.  And  yet  she  could 
have  had  nothing  to  remember  except  dreams. 

And  once,  when  young  Evelina  sat  sewing 
through  a  long  summer  afternoon  and  thinking 
about  her  lover,  the  elder  Evelina,  who  was  stor 
ing  rose  leaves  mixed  with  sweet  spices  in  a  jar, 
said,  suddenly,  "  He  looks  as  his  father  used  to." 

Young  Evelina  started.  "  Whom  do  you  mean, 
Cousin  Evelina  ?"  she  asked,  wonderingly  ;  for 
the  elder  Evelina  had  not  glanced  at  her,  nor 
even  seemed  to  address  her  at  all. 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  elder  Evelina,  and  a  soft 
flush  stole  over  her  withered  face  and  neck,  and 
she  sprinkled  more  cassia  on  the  rose  leaves  in 
the  jar. 

Young  Evelina  said  no  more  ;  but  she  won 
dered,  partly  because  Thomas  was  always  in  her 
mind,  and  it  seemed  to  her  naturally  that  nearly 
everything  must  have  a  savor  of  meaning  of  him, 
if  her  cousin  Evelina  could  possibly  have  referred 
to  him  and  his  likeness  to  his  father.  For  it  was 
commonly  said  that  Thomas  looked  very  like  his 
father,  although  his  figure  was  different.  The 
156 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

young  man  was  taller  and  more  firmly  built,  and 
he  had  not  the  meek  forward  curve  of  shoulder 
which  had  grown  upon  his  father  of  late  years. 

When  the  frosty  nights  came  Thomas  and  Eve 
lina  could  not  meet  and  walk  hand  in  hand  over 
the  fields  behind  the  Squire's  house,  and  they 
very  seldom  could  speak  to  each  other.  It  was 
nothing  except  a  ' 'good-day"  on  the  street,  and 
a  stolen  glance,  which  set  them  both  a-trem- 
bling  lest  all  the  congregation  had  noticed,  in 
the  meeting-house.  When  the  winter  set  fairly 
in  they  met  no  more,  for  the  elder  Evelina  was 
taken  ill,  and  her  young  cousin  did  not  leave  her 
even  to  go  to  meeting.  People  said  they  guessed 
it  was  Evelina  Adams's  last  sickness,  and  they 
furthermore  guessed  that  she  would  divide  her 
property  between  her  cousin  Martha  Loomis  and 
her  two  girls  and  Evelina  Leonard,  and  that  Eve 
lina  would  have  the  house  as  her  share. 

Thomas  Merriam  heard  this  last  with  a  satis 
faction  which  he  did  not  try  to  disguise  from 
himself,  because  he  never  dreamed  of  there  being 
any  selfish  element  in  it.  It  was  all  for  Evelina. 
Many  a  time  he  had  looked  about  the  humble 
house  where  he  had  been  born,  and  where  he 
would  have  to  take  Evelina  after  he  had  married 
her,  and  striven  to  see  its  poor  features  with  her 
eyes — not  with  his,  for  which  familiarity  had  tem 
pered  them.  Often,  as  he  sat  with  his  parents 
in  the  old  sitting-room,  in  which  he  had  kept 
157 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

so  far  an  unquestioning  belief,  as  in  a  friend  of 
his  childhood,  the  scales  of  his  own  personality 
would  fall  suddenly  from  his  eyes.  Then  he 
would  see,  as  Evelina,  the  poor,  worn,  humble 
face  of  his  home,  and  his  heart  would  sink.  "  I 
don't  see  how  I  ever  can  bring  her  here,"  he 
thought.  He  began  to  save,  a  few  cents  at  a 
time  out  of  his  pitiful  salary,  to  at  least  beautify 
his  own  chamber  a  little  when  Evelina  should 
come.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  she  should 
have  a  little  dressing-table,  with  an  oval  mirror, 
and  a  white  muslin  frill  around  it,  like  one  he 
had  seen  in  Boston.  "  She  shall  have  that  to  sit 
before  while  she  combs  her  hair,"  he  thought, 
with  defiant  tenderness,  when  he  stowed  away 
another  shilling  in  a  little  box  in  his  trunk.  It 
was  money  which  he  ordinarily  bestowed  upon 
foreign  missions ;  but  his  Evelina  had  come  be 
tween  him  and  the  heathen.  To  procure  some 
dainty  furnishings  for  her  bridal-chamber  he  took 
away  a  good  half  of  his  tithes  for  the  spread  of 
the  gospel  in  the  dark  lands.  Now  and  then  his 
conscience  smote  him,  he  felt  shamefaced  before 
his  deacons,  but  Evelina  kept  her  first  claim. 
He  resolved  that  another  year  he  would  hire  a 
piece  of  land,  and  combine  farming  with  his  min 
isterial  work,  and  so  try  to  eke  out  his  salary,  and 
get  a  little  more  money  to  beautify  his  poor  home 
for  his  bride. 

Now  if  Evelina  Adams  had  come  to  the  ap- 
158 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

pointed  time  for  the  closing  of  her  solitary  life, 
and  if  her  yomig  cousin  should  inherit  a  share 
of  her  goodly  property  and  the  fine  old  man 
sion-house,,  all  necessity  for  anxiety  of  this  kind 
was  over.  Young  Evelina  would  not  need  to 
be  taken  away,  for  the  sake  of  her  love,  from 
all  these  comforts  and  luxuries.  Thomas  Mer- 
riain  rejoiced  innocently,  without  a  thought  for 
himself. 

In  the  course  of  the  winter  he  confided  in  his 
father  ;  he  couldn't  keep  it  to  himself  any  longer. 
Then  there  was  another  reason.  Seeing  Evelina 
so  little  made  him  at  times  almost  doubt  the  re 
ality  of  it  all.  There  were  days  when  he  was  de 
pressed,  and  inclined  to  ask  himself  if  he  had  not 
dreamed  it.  Telling  somebody  gave  it  substance. 

His  father  listened  soberly  when  he  told  him ; 
he  had  grown  old  of  late. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  she  'ain't  been  used  to 
living  the  way  you  have,  though  you  have  had 
advantages  that  none  of  your  folks  ever  had  ; 
but  if  she  likes  you,  that's  all  there  is  to  it,  I 
s'pose/' 

The  old  man  sighed  wearily.  lie  sat  in  his 
arm-chair  at  the  kitchen  fireplace ;  his  wife  had 
gone  in  to  one  of  the  neighbors,  and  the  two  were 
alone. 

"Of  course,"  said  Thomas,  simply,  "if  Eve 
lina  Adams  shouldn't  live,  the  chances  are  that  I 
shouldn't  have  to  bring  her  here.  She  wouldn't 
159 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

have  to  give  up  anything  on  my  account — you 
know  that,  father." 

Then  the  young  man  started,  for  his  father 
turned  suddenly  on  him  with  a  pale,  wrathful 
face.  "  You  ain't  countin'  on  that !"  he  shouted. 
"You  ain't  countin'  on  that — a  son  of  mine  count- 
in'  on  anything  like  that  !" 

Thomas  colored.  "Why,  father,"  he  stam 
mered,  "  you  don't  think — you  know,  it's  all  for 
her — and  they  say  she  can't  live  anyway.  I  had 
never  thought  of  such  a  thing  before.  I  was 
wondering  how  I  could  make  it  comfortable  for 
Evelina  here." 

But  his  father  did  not  seem  to  listen.  "  Count- 
in'  on  that !"  he  repeated.  "  Countin'  on  a  poor 
old  soul,  that  'ain't  ever  had  anything  to  set  her 
heart  on  but  a  few  posies,  dyin'  to  make  room 
for  other  folks  to  have  what  she's  been  cheated 
out  on.  Countin'  on  that !"  The  old  man's 
voice  broke  into  a  hoarse  sob;  he  got  up,  and 
went  hurriedly  out  of  the  room. 

"  Why,  father  !"  his  son  called  after  him,  in 
alarm.  He  got  up  to  follow  him,  but  his  father 
waved  him  back  and  shut  the  door  hard. 

"  Father  must  be  getting  childish,"  Thomas 
thought,  wonderingly.  He  did  not  bring  up  the 
subject  to  him  again. 

Evelina  Adams  died  in  March.  One  morning 
the  bell  tolled  seventy  long  melancholy  tones  be 
fore  people  had  eaten  their  breakfasts.  They  rail 
160 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

to  their  doors  and  counted.  "It's  her/'  they 
said,  nodding,  when  they  had  waited  a  little  after 
the  seventieth  stroke.  Directly  Mrs.  Martha 
Loomis  and  her  two  girls  were  seen  hustling  im 
portantly  down  the  road,  with  their  shawls  over 
their  heads,  to  the  Squire's  house.  "Mis'  Loo- 
mis  can  lay  her  out,"  they  said.  "  It  ain't  likely 
that  young  Evelina  knows  anything  about  such 
things.  Gruess  she'll  be  thankful  she's  got  some 
body  to  call  on  now,  if  she  'ain't  mixed  much 
with  the  Loomises."  Then  they  wondered  when 
the  funeral  would  be,  and  the  women  furbished 
up  their  black  gowns  and  bonnets,  and  even  in  a 
few  cases  drove  to  the  next  town  and  borrowed 
from  relatives  ;  but  there  was  a  great  disappoint 
ment  in  store  for  them. 

Evelina  Adams  died  on  a  Saturday.  The  next 
day  it  was  announced  from  the  pulpit  that  the 
funeral  would  be  private,  by  the  particular  re 
quest  of  the  deceased.  Evelina  Adams  had  car 
ried  her  delicate  seclusion  beyond  death,  to  the 
very  borders  of  the  grave.  Nobody,  outside  the 
family,  was  bidden  to  the  funeral,  except  the 
doctor,  the  minister,  and  the  two  deacons  of 
the  church.  They  were  to  be  the  bearers.  The 
burial  also  was  to  be  private,  in  the  Squire's  fam 
ily  burial-lot,  at  the  north  of  the  house.  The 
bearers  would  carry  the  coffin  across  the  yard, 
and  there  would  not  only  be  no  funeral,  but  no 
funeral  procession,  and  no  hearse,  "It  don't 
L  161 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

seem  scarcely  decent,"  the  women  whispered  to 
each  other  ;  "  and  more  than  all  that,  she  ain't 
goin'  to  be  seen."  The  deacons'  wives  were  espe 
cially  disturbed  by  this  last,  as  they  might  other 
wise  have  gained  many  interesting  particulars  by 
proxy. 

Monday  was  the  day  set  for  the  burial.  Early 
in  the  morning  old  Thomas  Merriam  walked 
feebly  up  the  road  to  the  Squire's  house.  People 
noticed  him  as  he  passed.  ' '  How  terrible  fast 
he's  grown  old  lately  !"  they  said.  He  opened 
the  gate  which  led  into  the  Squire's  front  yard 
with  fumbling  fingers,  and  went  up  the  walk  to 
the  front  door,  under  the  Corinthian  pillars,  and 
raised  the  brass  knocker. 

Evelina  opened  the  door,  and  started  and 
blushed  when  she  saw  him.  She  had  been  cry 
ing  ;  there  were  red  rings  around  her  blue  eyes, 
and  her  pretty  lips  were  swollen.  She  tried  to 
smile  at  Thomas's  father,  and  she  held  out  her 
hand  with  shy  welcome. 

"  I  want  to  see  her,"  the  old  man  said,  abruptly. 

Evelina  started,  and  looked  at  him  wonder- 
ingly.  "I — don't  believe  —  I  know  who  you 
mean,"  said  she.  "Do  you  want  to  see  Mrs. 
Loomis  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  want  to  see  her." 

"Her?" 

"  Yes,  her." 

Evelina  turned  pale  as  she  stared  at  him. 
162 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

There  was  something  strange  about  his  face. 
«•  But  —  Cousin  Evelina,"  she  faltered — "she — 
didn't  want —  Perhaps  you  don't  know  :  she  left 
special  directions  that  nobody  was  to  look  at  her." 

"  I  want  to  see  her/'  said  the  old  man,  and  Eve 
lina  gave  way.  She  stood  aside  for  him  to  enter, 
and  led  him  into  the  great  north  parlor,  where 
Evelina  Adams  lay  in  her  mournful  state.  The 
shutters  were  closed,  and  one  on  entering  could 
distinguish  nothing  but  that  long  black  shad 
ow  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Young  Evelina 
opened  a  shutter  a  little  way,  and  a  slanting  shaft 
of  spring  sunlight  came  in  and  shot  athwart  the 
coffin.  The  old  man  tiptoed  up  and  leaned  over 
and  looked  at  the  dead  woman.  Evelina  Adams 
had  left  further  instructions  about  her  funeral, 
which  no  one  understood,  but  which  were  faith 
fully  carried  out.  She  wished,  she  had  said,  to  be 
attired  for  her  long  sleep  in  a  certain  rose-colored 
gown,  laid  away  in  rose  leaves  and  lavender  in  a 
certain  chest  in  a  certain  chamber.  There  were 
also  silken  hose  and  satin  shoes  with  it,  and  these 
were  to  be  put  on,  and  a  wrought  lace  tucker 
fastened  with  a  pearl  brooch. 

It  was  the  costume  she  had  worn  one  Sabbath 
day  back  in  her  youth,  when  she  had  looked 
across  the  meeting-house  and  her  eyes  had  met 
young  Thomas  Merriam's  ;  but  nobody  knew  nor 
remembered ;  even  young  Evelina  thought  it 
was  simply  a  vagary  of  her  dead  cousin's, 
163 


EVELINA'S    GAKDEN 

"  It  don't  seem  to  me  decent  to  lay  away  any 
body  dressed  so,"  said  Mrs.  Martha  Loomis ; 
"but  of  course  last  wishes  must  be  respected." 

The  two  Loomis  girls  said  they  were  thankful 
nobody  was  to  see  the  departed  in  her  rose-colored 
shroud. 

Even  old  Thomas  Merriam,  leaning  over  poor 
Evelina,  cold  and  dead  in  the  garb  of  her  youth, 
did  not  remember  it,  and  saw  no  meaning  in  it. 
He  looked  at  her  long.  The  beautiful  color  was 
all  faded  out  of  the  yellow- white  face  ;  the  sweet 
full  lips  were  set  and  thin ;  the  closed  blue  eyes 
sunken  in  dark  hollows  ;  the  yellow  hair  showed 
a  line  of  gray  at  the  edge  of  her  old  woman's  cap, 
and  thin  gray  curls  lay  against  the  hollow  cheeks. 
But  old  Thomas  Merriam  drew  a  long  breath 
when  he  looked  at  her.  It  was  like  a  gasp  of 
admiration  and  wonder  ;  a  strange  rapture  came 
into  his  dim  eyes ;  his  lips  moved  as  if  he  whis 
pered  to  her,  but  young  Evelina  could  not  hear 
a  sound.  She  watched  him,  half  frightened,  but 
finally  he  turned  to  her.  "I  'ain't  seen  her — 
fairly/'  said  he,  hoarsely  —  "I  'ain't  seen  her, 
savin'  a  glimpse  of  her  at  the  window,  for  over 
forty  year,  and  she  'ain't  changed,  not  a  look.  I'd 
have  known  her  anywheres.  She's  the  same  as 
she  was  when  she  was  a  girl.  It's  wonderful — 
wonderful  I" 

Young  Evelina  shrank  a  little.      "We  think 
she  looks  natural,"  she  said,  hesitatingly. 
164 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

"  She  looks  jest  as  she  did  when  she  was  a  girl 
and  used  to  come  into  the  meetin'-house.  She 
is  jest  the  same,"  the  old  man  repeated,  in  his 
eager,  hoarse  voice.  Then  he  bent  over  the  cof 
fin,  and  his  lips  moved  again.  Young  Evelina 
would  have  called  Mrs.  Loomis,  for  she  was 
frightened,  had  he  not  been  Thomas's  father,  and 
had  it  not  been  for  her  vague  feeling  that  there 
might  be  some  old  story  to  explain  this  which 
she  had  never  heard.  "  Maybe  he  was  in  love 
with  poor  Cousin  Evelina,  as  Thomas  is  with  me," 
thought  young  Evelina,  using  her  own  leaping- 
pole  of  love  to  land  straight  at  the  truth.  But 
she  never  told  her  surmise  to  any  one  except 
Thomas,  and  that  was  long  afterwards,  when  the 
old  man  was  dead.  Now  she  watched  him  with 
her  blue  dilated  eyes.  But  soon  he  turned  away 
from  the  coffin  and  made  his  way  straight  out  of 
the  room,  without  a  word.  Evelina  followed  him 
through  the  entry  and  opened  the  outer  door. 
He  turned  on  the  threshold  and  looked  back  at 
her,  his  face  working. 

"  Don't  ye  go  to  lottin'  too  much  on  what  ye're 
goin'  to  get  through  folks  that  have  died  an7  not 
had  anything,"  he  said ;  and  he  shook  his  head, 
almost  fiercely  at  her. 

"  No,  I  won't.  I  don't  think  I  understand 
what  you  mean,  sir,"  stammered  Evelina. 

The  old  man  stood  looking  at  her  a  moment. 
Suddenly  she  saw  the  tears  rolling  over  his  old 
165 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

cheeks.  "  I'm  much  obliged  to  ye  for  lettin'  of 
me  see  her,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  and  crept  feebly 
down  the  steps. 

Evelina  went  back  trembling  to  the  room  where 
her  dead  cousin  lay,  and  covered  her  face,  and 
closed  the  shutter  again.  Then  she  went  about 
her  household  duties,  wondering.  She  could  not 
understand  what  it  all  meant ;  but  one  thing  she 
understood — that  in  some  way  this  old  dead 
woman,  Evelina  Adams,  had  gotten  immortal 
youth  and  beauty  in  one  human  heart.  "She 
looked  to  him  just  as  she  did  when  she  was  a  girl," 
Evelina  kept  thinking  to  herself  with  awe.  She 
said  nothing  about  it  to  Mrs.  Martha  Loomis  or 
her  daughters.  They  had  been  in  the  back  part 
of  the  house,  and  had  not  heard  old  Thomas 
Merriam  come  in,  and  they  never  knew  about  it. 

Mrs.  Loomis  and  the  two  girls  stayed  in  the 
house  day  and  night  until  after  the  funeral. 
They  confidently  expected  to  live  there  in  the 
future.  "It  isn't  likely  that  Evelina  Adams 
thought  a  young  woman  no  older  than  Evelina 
Leonard  could  live  here  alone  in  this  great  house 
with  nobody  but  that  old  Sarah  Judd.  It  would 
not  be  proper  nor  becoming,"  said  Martha  Loomis 
to  her  two  daughters  ;  and  they  agreed,  and 
brought  over  many  of  their  possessions  under 
cover  of  night  to  the  Squire's  house  during  the 
interval  before  the  funeral. 

But  after  the  funeral  and  the  reading  of  the 
166 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

will  the  Loomises  made  sundry  trips  after  dusk 
back  to  their  old  home,  with  their  best  petticoats 
and  cloaks  over  their  arms,  and  their  bonnets 
dangling  by  their  strings  at  their  sides.  For 
Evelina  Adams's  last  will  and  testament  had  been 
read,  and  therein  provision  was  made  for  the  con 
tinuance  of  the  annuity  heretofore  paid  them  for 
their  support,  with  the  condition  affixed  that  not 
one  night  should  they  spend  after  the  reading  of 
the  will  in  the  house  known  as  the  Squire  Adams 
house.  The  annuity  was  an  ample  one,  and 
would  provide  the  widow  Martha  Loomis  and  her 
daughters,  as  it  had  done  before,  with  all  the 
needfuls  of  life  ;  but  upon  hearing  the  will  they 
stiffened  their  double  chins  into  their  kerchiefs 
with  indignation,  for  they  had  looked  for  more. 
Evelina  Adams's  will  was  a  will  of  conditions, 
for  unto  it  she  had  affixed  two  more,  and  those 
affected  her  beloved  cousin  Evelina  Leonard.  It 
was  notable  that  "beloved"  had  not  preceded 
her  cousin  Martha  Loomis's  name  in  the  will.  No 
pretence  of  love,  when  she  felt  none,  had  she  ever 
made  in  her  life.  The  entire  property  of  Evelina 
Adams,  spinster,  deceased,  with  the  exception  of 
Widow  Martha  Loomis's  provision,  fell  to  this 
beloved  young  Evelina  Leonard,  subject  to  two 
conditions — firstly,  she  was  never  to  enter  into 
matrimony,  with  any  person  whomsoever,  at  any 
time  whatsoever  ;  secondly,  she  was  never  to  let 
the  said  spinster  Evelina  Adams's  garden,  situ- 
167 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

ated  at  the  rear  and  southward  of  the  house  known 
as  the  Squire  Adams  house,  die  through  any  neg 
lect  of  hers.  Due  allowance  was  to  be  made  for 
the  dispensations  of  Providence :  for  hail  and 
withering  frost  and  long  -  continued  drought, 
and  for  times  wherein  the  said  Evelina  Adams 
might,  by  reason  of  being  confined  to  the  house 
by  sickness,  be  prevented  from  attending  to  the 
needs  of  the  growing  plants,  and  the  verdict  in 
such  cases  was  to  rest  with  the  minister  and  the 
deacons  of  the  church.  But  should  this  beloved 
Evelina  love  and  wed,  or  should  she  let,  through 
any  wilful  neglect,  that  garden  perish  in  the  sea 
son  of  flowers,  all  that  goodly  property  would 
she  forfeit  to  a  person  unknown,  whose  name,  en 
closed  in  a  sealed  envelope,  was  to  be  held  mean 
time  in  the  hands  of  the  executor,  who  had  also 
drawn  up  the  will,  Lawyer  Joshua  Lang. 

There  was  great  excitement  in  the  village  over 
this  strange  and  unwonted  will.  Some  were  there 
who  held  that  Evelina  Adams  had  not  been  of 
sound  mind,  and  it  should  be  contested.  It  was 
even  rumored  that  Widow  Martha  Loomis  had 
visited  Lawyer  Joshua  Lang  and  broached  the 
subject,  but  he  had  dismissed  the  matter  peremp 
torily  by  telling  her  that  Evelina  Adams,  spin 
ster,  deceased,  had  been  as  much  in  her  right 
mind  at  the  time  of  drawing  the  will  as  anybody 
of  his  acquaintance. 

"  Not  setting  store  by  relations,  and  not  want- 
168 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

ing  to  have  them  under  yonr  roof,  doesn't  go  far 
in  law  nor  common-sense  to  send  folks  to  the 
madhouse,"  old  Lawyer  Lang,  who  was  famed 
for  his  sharp  tongue,  was  reported  to  have  said. 
However,  Mrs.  Martha  Loomis  was  somewhat 
comforted  by  her  firm  belief  that  either  her  own 
name  or  that  of  one  of  her  daughters  was  in  that 
sealed  envelope  kept  by  Lawyer  Joshua  Lang 
in  his  strong-box,  and  by  her  firm  purpose  to 
watch  carefully  lest  Evelina  prove  derelict  in  ful 
filling  the  two  conditions  whereby  she  held  the 
property. 

Larger  peep-holes  were  soon  cut  away  myste 
riously  in  the  high  arbor-vitae  hedge,  and  therein 
were  often  set  for  a  few  moments,  when  they 
passed  that  way,  the  eager  eyes  of  Mrs.  Martha  or 
her  daughter  Flora  or  Fidelia  Loomis.  Frequent 
calls  they  also  made  upon  Evelina,  living  alone 
with  the  old  woman  Sarah  Judd,  who  had  been 
called  in  during  her  cousin's  illness,  and  they 
strolled  into  the  garden,  spying  anxiously  for 
withered  leaves  or  dry  stalks.  They  at  every  op 
portunity  interviewed  the  old  man  who  assisted 
Evelina  in  her  care  of  the  garden  concerning  its 
welfare.  But  small  progress  they  made  with  him, 
standing  digging  at  the  earth  with  his  spade 
while  they  talked,  as  if  in  truth  his  wits  had  gone 
therein  before  his  body  and  he  would  uncover 
them. 

Moreover,  Mrs.  Martha  Loomis  talked  much 
169 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

slyly  to  mothers  of  young  men,  and  sometimes 
with  bold  insinuations  to  the  young  men  them 
selves,  of  the  sad  lot  of  poor  young  Evelina,  con 
demned  to  a  solitary  and  loveless  life,  and  of  her 
sweetness  and  beauty  and  desirability  in  herself, 
although  she  could  not  bring  the  old  Squire's 
money  to  her  husband.  And  once,  but  no  more 
than  that,  she  touched  lightly  upon  the  subject 
to  the  young  minister,  Thomas  Merriam,  when 
he  was  making  a  pastoral  call. 

"  My  heart  bleeds  for  the  poor  child  living  all 
alone  in  that  great  house,"  said  she.  And  she 
looked  down  mournfully,  and  did  not  see  how 
white  the  young  minister's  face  turned.  "It 
seems  almost  a  pity,"  said  she,  furthermore — 
"  Evelina  is  a  good  housekeeper,  and  has  rare 
qualities  in  herself,  and  so  many  get  poor  wives 
nowadays — that  some  godly  young  man  should 
not  court  her  in  spite  of  the  will.  I  doubt,  too, 
if  she  would  not  have  a  happier  lot  than  growing 
old  over  that  garden,  as  poor  Cousin  Evelina  did 
before  her,  even  if  she  has  a  fine  house  to  live  in 
and  a  goodly  sum  in  the  bank.  She  looks  pind- 
ling  enough  lately.  I'll  warrant  she  has  lost  a 
good  ten  pound  since  poor  Evelina  was  laid  away, 
and—" 

But  Thomas  Merriam  cut  her  short.     "  I  see 
no  profit  in  discussing  matters  which  do  not  con 
cern  us,"  said  he,  and  only  his  ministerial  estate 
saved  him  from  the  charge  of  impertinence. 
170 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

As  it  was,  Martha  Loomis  colored  high.  "  I'll 
warrant  he'll  look  out  which  side  his  bread  is  but 
tered  on  ;  ministers  always  do/'  she  said  to  her 
daughters  after  he  had  gone.  She  never  dreamed 
how  her  talk  had  cut  him  to  the  heart. 

Had  he  not  seen  more  plainly  than  any  one  else,, 
Sunday  after  Sunday,  when  he  glanced  down  at 
her  once  or  twice  cautiously  from  his  pulpit,  how 
weary-looking  and  thin  she  was  growing  ?  And 
her  bright  color  was  wellnigh  gone,  and  there 
were  pitiful  downward  lines  at  the  corners  of  her 
sweet  mouth.  Poor  young  Evelina  was  fading 
like  one  of  her  own  flowers,  as  if  some  celestial 
gardener  had  failed  in  his  care  of  her.  And 
Thomas  saw  it,  and  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he 
knew  the  reason,  and  yet  he  would  not  yield. 
Not  once  had  he  entered  the  old  Squire's  house 
since  he  attended  the  dead  Evelina's  funeral,  and 
stood  praying  and  eulogizing,  with  her  coffin  be 
tween  him  and  the  living  Evelina,  with  her  pale 
face  shrouded  in  black  bombazine.  He  had  never 
spoken  to  her  since,  nor  entered  the  house  ;  but 
he  had  written  her  a  letter,  in  which  all  the  fierce 
passion  and  anguish  of  his  heart  was  cramped  and 
held  down  by  formal  words  and  pbrases,  and  poor 
young  Evelina  did  not  see  beneath  them.  When 
her  lover  wrote  her  that  he  felt  it  inconsistent 
with  his  Christian  duty  and  the  higher  aims  of 
his  existence  to  take  any  further  steps  towards  a 
matrimonial  alliance,  she  felt  merely  that  Thomas 
171 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

either  cared  no  more  for  her,  or  had  come  to  con 
sider,  upon  due  reflection,  that  she  was  not  fit  to 
undertake  the  responsible  position  of  a  minister's 
wife.  "  It  may  be  that  in  some  way  I  failed  in 
my  attendance  upon  Cousin  Evelina,"  thought 
poor  young  Evelina,  "  or  it  may  be  that  he  thinks 
I  have  not  enough  dignity  of  character  to  inspire 
respect  among  the  older  women  in  the  church." 
And  sometimes,  with  a  sharp  thrust  of  misery 
that  shook  her  out  of  her  enforced  patience  and 
meekness,  she  wondered  if  indeed  her  own  lov 
ing  freedom  with  him  had  turned  him  against 
her,  and  led  him  in  his  later  and  sober  judgment 
to  consider  her  too  light-minded  for  a  minister's 
wife.  "  It  may  be  that  I  was  guilty  of  great  in 
decorum,  and  almost  indeed  forfeited  my  claim 
to  respect  for  maidenly  modesty,  inasmuch  as  I 
suffered  him  to  give  me  kisses,  and  did  almost 
bring  myself  to  return  them  in  kind.  But  my 
heart  did  so  entreat  me,  and  in  truth  it  seemed 
almost  like  a  lack  of  sincerity  for  me  to  wholly 
withstand  it,"  wrote  poor  young  Evelina  in  her 
journal  at  that  time  ;  and  she  further  wrote  :  "  It 
is  indeed  hard  for  one  who  has  so  little  knowledge 
to  be  fully  certain  of  what  is  or  is  not  becoming 
and  a  Christian  duty  in  matters  of  this  kind  ;  but 
if  I  have  in  any  manner,  through  my  ignorance 
or  unwarrantable  affection,  failed,  and  so  lost  the 
love  and  respect  of  a  good  man,  and  the  oppor 
tunity  to  become  his  helpmeet  during  life,  I  pray 
172 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

that  I  may  be  forgiven — for  I  sinned  not  wilfully 
— that  the  lesson  may  be  sanctified  unto  me,  and 
that  I  may  live  as  the  Lord  order,  in  Christian 
patience  and  meekness,  and  not  repining."  It 
never  occurred  to  young  Evelina  that  possibly 
Thomas  Merriam's  sense  of  duty  might  be 
strengthened  by  the  loss  of  all  her  cousin's  prop- 
ert}r  should  she  marry  him,  and  neither  did  she 
dream  that  he  might  hesitate  to  take  her  from 
affluence  into  poverty  for  her  own  sake.  For 
herself  the  property,  as  put  in  the  balance  beside 
her  love,  was  lighter  than  air  itself.  It  was  so 
light  that  it  had  no  place  in  her  consciousness. 
She  simply  had  thought,  upon  hearing  the  will, 
of  Martha  Loomis  and  her  daughters  in  posses 
sion  of  the  property,  and  herself  with  Thomas, 
with  perfect  acquiescence  and  rapture. 

Evelina  Adams's  disapprobation  of  her  mar 
riage,  which  was  supposedly  expressed  in  the  will, 
had  indeed,  without  reference  to  the  property, 
somewhat  troubled  her  tender  heart,  but  she  told 
herself  that  Cousin  Evelina  had  not  known  she 
had  promised  to  marry  Thomas  ;  that  she  would 
not  wish  her  to  break  her  solemn  promise.  And 
furthermore,  it  seemed  to  her  quite  reasonable 
that  the  condition  had  been  inserted  in  the  will 
mainly  through  concern  for  the  beloved  garden. 

"  Cousin  Evelina  might  have  thought  perhaps 
I  would  let  the  flowers  die  when  I  had  a  husband 
and  children  to  take  care  of,"  said  Evelina.  And 
173 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

so  she  had  disposed  of  all  the  considerations 
which  had  disturbed  her,  and  had  thought  of  no 
others. 

She  did  not  answer  Thomas's  letter.  It  was 
so  worded  that  it  seemed  to  require  no  reply,  and 
she  felt  that  he  must  be  sure  of  her  acquiescence 
in  whatever  he  thought  best.  She  laid  the  let 
ter  away  in  a  little  rosewood  box,  in  which  she 
had  always  kept  her  dearest  treasures  since  her 
school-days.  Sometimes  she  took  it  out  and  read 
it,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  pain  in  her  heart 
would  put  an  end  to  her  in  spite  of  all  her  pray 
ers  for  Christian  fortitude  ;  and  yet  she  could  not 
help  reading  it  again. 

It  was  seldom  that  she  stole  a  look  at  her  old 
lover  as  he  stood  in  the  pulpit  in  the  meeting 
house,  but  when  she  did  she  thought  with  an 
anxious  pang  that  he  looked  worn  and  ill,  and 
that  night  she  prayed  that  the  Lord  would  restore 
his  health  to  him  for  the  sake  of  his  people. 

It  was  four  months  after  Evelina  Adams's  death, 
and  her  garden  was  in  the  full  glory  of  midsum 
mer,  when  one  evening,  towards  dusk,  young  Eve 
lina  went  slowly  down  the  street.  She  seldom 
walked  abroad  now,  but  kept  herself  almost  as 
secluded  as  her  cousin  had  done  before  her.  But 
that  night  a  great  restlessness  was  upon  her,  and 
she  put  a  little  black  silk  shawl  over  her  shoul 
ders  and  went  out.  It  was  quite  cool,  although  it 
was  midsummer.  The  dusk  was  deepening  fast ; 
174 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

the  katydids  called  back  and  forth  from  the  way 
side  bushes.  Evelina  met  nobody  for  some  dis 
tance.  Then  she  saw  a  man  coming  towards  her, 
and  her  heart  stood  still,  and  she  was  about  to 
turn  back,  for  she  thought  for  a  minute  it  was 
the  young  minister.  Then  she  saw  it  was  his 
father,  and  she  went  on  slowly,  with  her  eyes 
downcast.  When  she  met  him  she  looked  up  and 
said  good  -  evening,  gravely,  and  would  have 
passed  on,  but  he  stood  in  her  way. 

"I've  got  a  word  to  say  to  ye,  if  ye'll  listen," 
he  said. 

Evelina  looked  at  him  tremblingly.  There  was 
something  strained  and  solemn  in  his  manner. 
"I'll  hear  whatever  you  have  to  say,  sir,"  she 
said. 

The  old  man  leaned  his  pale  face  over  her  and 
raised  a  shaking  forefinger.  ' '  I've  made  up  my 
mind  to  say  something,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  know 
as  I've  got  any  right  to,  and  maybe  my  son  will 
blame  me,  but  I'm  goin'  to  see  that  you  have  a 
chance.  It's  been  borne  in  upon  me  that  women 
folks  don't  always  have  a  fair  chance.  It's  jest 
this  I'm  goin'  to  say :  I  don't  know  whether  you 
know  how  my  son  feels  about  it  or  not.  I  don't 
know  how  open  he's  been  with  you.  Do  you 
know  jest  why  he  quit  you  ?" 

Evelina  shook  her  head.  (e  No,"  she  panted 
— "I  don't — I  never  knew.  He  said  it  was  his 
duty." 

175 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

"  Duty  can  get  to  be  an  idol  of  wood  and  stone, 
an7 1  don't  know  but  Thomas's  is/'  said  the  old 
man.  "  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  He  don't  think  it's 
right  for  him  to  marry  you,  and  make  you  leave 
that  big  house,  and  lose  all  that  money.  He  don't 
care  anything  about  it  for  himself,  but  it's  for 
you.  Did  you  know  that  ?" 

Evelina  grasped  the  old  man's  arm  hard  with 
her  little  fingers. 

"You  don't  mean  that — was  why  he  did  it  !*' 
she  gasped. 

"  Yes,  that  was  why." 

Evelina  drew  away  from  him.  She  was  ashamed 
to  have  Thomas's  father  see  the  joy  in  her  face. 
"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  said.  "  I  did  not  under 
stand.  I — will  write  to  him." 

"Maybe  my  son  will  think  I  have  done  wrong 
coming  betwixt  him  and  his  idees  of  duty," 
said  old  Thomas  Merriam,  "  but  sometimes 
there's  a  good  deal  lost  for  lack  of  a  word,  and  I 
wanted  you  to  have  a  fair  chance  an'  a  fair  say. 
It's  been  borne  in  upon  me  that  women  folks 
don't  always  have  it.  Now  you  can  do  jest  as 
you  think  best,  but  you  must  remember  one 
thing — riches  ain't  all.  A  little  likin'  for  you 
that's  goin'  to  last,  and  keep  honest  and  faithful 
to  you  as  long  as  you  live,  is  worth  more  ;  an'  it's 
worth  more  to  women  folks  than  'tis  to  men,  an' 
it's  worth  enough  to  them.  My  son's  poorly. 
His  mother  and  I  are  worried  about  him.  He 
176 


EVELINA'S    GAEDEN 

don't  eat  nor  sleep — walks  his  chamber  nights. 
His  mother  don't  know  what  the  matter  is,  but 
he  let  on  to  me  some  time  since." 

"Fll  write  a  letter  to  him,"  gasped  Evelina 
again.  "  Good-night,  sir."  She  pulled  her  little 
black  silk  shawl  over  her  head  and  hastened  home, 
and  all  night  long  her  candle  burned,  while  her 
weary  little  fingers  toiled  over  pages  of  foolscap- 
paper  to  convince  Thomas  Merriam  fully,  and 
yet  in  terms  not  exceeding  maidenly  reserve,  that 
the  love  of  his  heart  and  the  companionship  of 
his  life  were  worth  more  to  her  than  all  the  silver 
and  gold  in  the  world.  Then  the  next  morning 
she  despatched  it,  all  neatly  folded  and  sealed, 
and  waited. 

It  was  strange  that  a  letter  like  that  could  not 
have  moved  Thomas  Merriam,  when  his  heart  too 
pleaded  with  him  so  hard  to  be  moved.  But  that 
might  have  been  the  very  reason  why  he  could 
withstand  her,  and  why  the  consciousness  of  his 
own  weakness  gave  him  strength.  Thomas  Mer 
riam  was  one,  when  he  had  once  fairly  laid  hold 
of  duty,  to  grasp  it  hard,  although  it  might  be 
to  his  own  pain  and  death,  and  maybe  to  that  of 
others.  He  wrote  to  poor  young  Evelina  another 
letter,  in  which  he  emphasized  and  repeated  his 
strict  adherence  to  what  he  believed  the  line  of 
duty  in  their  separation,  and  ended  it  with  a 
prayer  for  her  welfare  and  happiness,  in  which, 
indeed,  for  a  second,  the  passionate  heart  of  the 
M  177 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

man  showed  forth.  Then  he  locked  himself  in 
his  chamber,  and  nobody  ever  knew  what  he  suf 
fered  there.  But  one  pang  he  did  not  suffer 
which  Evelina  would  have  suffered  in  his  place. 
He  mourned  not  over  nor  realized  the  grief  of  her 
tender  heart  when  she  should  read  his  letter, 
otherwise  he  could  not  have  sent  it.  He  writhed 
under  his  own  pain  alone,  and  his  duty  hugged 
him  hard,  like  the  iron  maiden  of  the  old  tort 
ures,  but  he  would  not  yield. 

As  for  Evelina,  when  she  got  his  letter,  and 
had  read  it  through,  she  sat  still  and  white  for  a 
long  time,  and  did  not  seem  to  hear  when  old 
Sarah  Judd  spoke  to  her.  But  at  last  she  rose 
and  went  to  her  chamber,  and  knelt  down,  and 
prayeft  for  a  long  time  ;  and  then  she  went  out 
in  the  garden  and  cut  all  the  most  beautiful  flow 
ers,  and  tied  them  in  wreaths  and  bouquets,  and 
carried  them  out  to  the  north  side  of  the  house, 
where  her  cousin  Evelina  was  buried,  and  cov 
ered  her  grave  with  them.  And  then  she  knelt 
down  there  and  hid  her  face  among  them,  and 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  in  a  listening  ear,  "  I 
pray  yon,  Cousin  Evelina,  forgive  me  for  what  I 
am  about  to  do." 

And  then  she  returned  to  the  house,  and  sat  at 
her  needle-work  as  usual ;  but  the  old  woman 
kept  looking  at  her,  and  asking  if  she  were  sick, 
for  there  was  a  strange  look  in  her  face. 

She  and  old  Sarah  Judd  had  always  their  tea 
178 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

at  five  o'clock,,  and  put  the  candles  out  at  nine, 
and  this  night  they  did  as  they  were  wont.  But 
at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  young  Evelina  stole 
softly  down  the  stairs  with  her  lighted  candle, 
and  passed  through  into  the  kitchen  ;  and  a  half- 
hour  after  she  came  forth  into  the  garden,  which 
lay  in  full  moonlight,  and  she  had  in  her  hand 
a  steaming  teakettle,  and  she  passed  around 
among  the  shrubs  and  watered  them,  and  a  white 
cloud  of  steam  rose  around  them.  Back  and 
forth  she  went  to  the  kitchen  ;  for  she  had  heated 
the  great  copper  wash-kettle  full  of  water  ;  and 
she  watered  all  the  shrubs  in  the  garden,  moving 
amid  curling  white  wreaths  of  steam,  until  the 
water  was  gone.  And  then  she  set  to  work  and 
tore  up  by  the  roots  with  her  little  hands  and 
trampled  with  her  little  feet  all  the  beautiful  ten 
der  flower-beds  ;  all  the  time  weeping,  and  moan 
ing  softly  :  "  Poor  Cousin  Evelina  !  poor  Cousin 
Evelina  !  Oh,  forgive  me,  poor  Cousin  Evelina  !" 

And  at  dawn  the  garden  lay  in  ruin,  for  all  the 
tender  plants  she  had  torn  up  by  the  roots  and 
trampled  down,  and  all  the  stronger-rooted  shrubs 
she  had  striven  to  kill  with  boiling  water  and 
salt. 

Then  Evelina  went  into  the  house,  and  made 
herself  tidy  as  well  as  she  could  when  she  trem 
bled  so,  and  put  her  little  shawl  over  her  head,  and 
went  down  the  road  to  the  Merriams'  house.  It 
was  so  early  the  village  was  scarcely  astir,  but 
179 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

there  was  smoke  coming  out  of  the  kitchen  chim 
ney  at  the  Merriams' ;  and  when  she  knocked, 
Mrs.  Merriam  opened  the  door  at  once,  and  stared 
at  her. 

1  ( Is  Sarah  Judd  dead  ?"  she  cried  ;  for  her  first 
thought  was  that  something  must  have  happened 
when  she  saw  the  girl  standing  there  with  her 
wild  pale  face. 

"I  want  to  see  the  minister/'  said  Evelina, 
faintly,  and  she  looked  at  Thomas's  mother  with 
piteous  eyes. 

"  Be  you  sick  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Merriam.  She  laid 
a  hard  hand  on  the  girl's  arm,  and  led  her  into 
the  sitting-room,  and  put  her  into  the  rocking- 
chair  with  the  feather  cushion.  "You  look  real 
poorly,"  said  she.  "  Sha'n't  I  get  you  a  little  of 
my  elderberry  wine  ?" 

"  I  want  to  see  him,"  said  Evelina,  and  she  al 
most  sobbed. 

"I'll  go  right  and  speak  to  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Merriam.  "  He's  up,  I  guess.  He  gets  up  early 
to  write.  But  hadn't  I  better  get  you  something 
to  take  first  ?  You  do  look  sick." 

But  Evelina  only  shook  her  head.  She  had  her 
face  covered  with  her  hands,  and  was  weeping 
softly.  Mrs.  Merriam  left  the  room,  with  a  long 
backward  glance  at  her.  Presently  the  door  open 
ed  and  Thomas  came  in.  Evelina  stood  up  before 
him.  Her  pale  face  was  all  wet  with  tears,  but 
there  was  an  air  of  strange  triumph  about  her. 
180 


THE  LORD  MARK  ME  WORTHY 
OF  THEE,  EVELINA'' 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

"  The  garden  is  dead,"  said  she. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  cried  out,  staring 
at  her,  for  indeed  he  thought  for  a  minute  that 
her  wits  had  left  her. 

' (  The  garden  is  dead,"  said  she.  "  Last  night 
I  watered  the  roses  with  boiling  water  and  salt, 
and  I  pulled  the  other  flowers  up  by  their  roots. 
The  garden  is  dead,  and  I  have  lost  all  Cousin 
Evelina's  money,  and  it  need  not  come  between 
us  any  longer."  She  said  that,  and  looked  up  in 
his  face  with  her  blue  eyes,  through  which  the 
love  of  the  whole  race  of  loving  women  from 
which  she  had  sprung,  as  well  as  her  own,  seemed 
to  look,  and  held  out  her  little  hands  ;  but  even 
then  Thomas  Merriam.  could  not  understand,  and 
stood  looking  at  her. 

"  Why — did  you  do  it  ?"  he  stammered. 

"  Because  you  would  have  me  no  other  way, 
and  —  I  couldn't  bear  that  anything  like  that 
should  come  between  us,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
shook  like  a  harp-string,  and  her  pale  face  went 
red,  then  pale  again. 

But  Thomas  still  stood  staring  at  her.  Then 
her  heart  failed  her.  She  thought  that  he  did 
not  care,  and  she  had  been  mistaken.  She  felt 
as  if  it  were  the  hour  of  her  death,  and  turned  to 
go.  And  then  he  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Oh,"  he  cried,  with  a  great  sob,  "  the  Lord 
make  me  worthy  of  thee,  Evelina  !" 

There  had  never  been  so  much  excitement  in 
181 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

the  village  as  when  the  fact  of  the  ruined  garden 
came  to  light.  Flora  Loomis,  peeping  through 
the  hedge  on  her  way  to  the  store,  had  spied  it 
first.  Then  she  had  run  home  for  her  mother, 
who  had  in  turn  sought  Lawyer  Lang,  panting 
bonnetless  down  the  road.  But  before  the  lawyer 
had  started  for  the  scene  of  disaster,  the  minis 
ter,  Thomas  Merriam,  had  appeared,  and  asked 
for  a  word  in  private  with  him.  Nobody  ever 
knew  just  what  that  word  was,  but  the  lawyer 
was  singularly  uncommunicative  and  reticent  as 
to  the  ruined  garden. 

"  Do  you  think  the  young  woman  is  out  of  her 
mind  ?"  one  of  the  deacons  asked  him,  in  a  whis 
per. 

' '  I  wish  all  the  young  women  were  as  much  in 
their  minds  ;  we'd  have  a  better  world,"  said  the 
lawyer,  gruffly. 

' '  When  do  you  think  we  can  begin  to  move  in 
here  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Martha  Loomis,  her  wide 
skirts  sweeping  a  bed  of  uprooted  verbenas. 

"  When  your  claim  is  established,"  returned 
the  lawyer,  shortly,  and  turned  on  his  heel  and 
went  away,  his  dry  old  face  scanning  the  ground 
like  a  clog  on  a  scent.  That  afternoon  he  opened 
the  sealed  document  in  the  presence  of  witnesses, 
and  the  name  of  the  heir  to  whom  the  property 
fell  was  disclosed.  It  was  "Thomas  Merriam, 
the  beloved  and  esteemed  minister  of  this  parish," 
and  young  Evelina  would  gain  her  wealth  instead 
182 


EVELINA'S    GARDEN 

of  losing  it  by  her  marriage.  And  furthermore, 
after  the  declaration  of  the  name  of  the  heir  was 
this  added  :  ' '  This  do  I  in  the  hope  and  belief 
that  neither  the  greed  of  riches  nor  the  fear  of 
them  shall  prevent  that  which  is  good  and  wise 
in  the  sight  of  the  Lord,  and  with  the  surety  that 
a  love  which  shall  triumph  over  so  much  in  its 
way  shall  endure,  and  shall  be  a  blessing  and  not 
a  curse  to  my  beloved  cousin,  Evelina  Leonard." 
Thomas  Merriam  and  Evelina  were  married 
before  the  leaves  full  in  that  same  year,  by  the 
minister  of  the  next  village,  who  rode  over  in  his 
chaise,  and  brought  his  wife,  who  was  also  a  bride, 
and  wore  her  wedding-dress  of  a  pink  and  pearl 
shot  silk.  But  young  Evelina  wore  the  blue 
bridal  array  which  had  been  worn  by  old  Squire 
Adams's  bride,  all  remodelled  daintily  to  suit  the 
fashion  of  the  times ;  and  as  she  moved,  the  fra 
grances  of  roses  and  lavender  of  the  old  summers 
during  which  it  had  been  laid  away  were  evi 
dent,  like  sweet  memories. 


A  ]STEW  ENGLAND  PROPHET 


AT  half-past  six  o'clock  a  little  company  of  peo 
ple  passed  down  the  village  street  in  the  direction 
of  the  Lennox  farm-house. 

They  advanced  in  silence,  stepping  along  the 
frozen  ridges  of  the  road.  It  was  cold,  but  there 
was  no  snow.  There  was  a  young  moon  shining 
through  thin  white  clouds  like  nebulae. 

Now  and  then,  as  the  company  went  on,  new 
recruits  were  gathered  from  the  scattered  houses. 
A  man  would  emerge  darkly  from  a  creaking 
gate,  with  maybe  a  second  and  third  dark  figure 
following,  with  a  flirt  of  feminine  draperies. 
"  There's  Deacon  Scranton,"  or  "  There's  Thom 
as  Jennings  and  his  wife  and  Ellen,"  the  people 
would  murmur  to  one  another. 

Once  a  gleam  of  candle-light  from  an  open  door 
lay  across  the  road  in  advance,  and  wavered  into 
darkness  with  a  slam  of  the  door  when  the  com 
pany  drew  near.  Then  a  solitary  woman  came 
ponderously  down  the  front  walk,  seeming  to  jar 
the  frozen  earth  with  the  jolt  of  her  great  femi- 
184 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

nine  bulk.  "  There's  Abby  Mosely,"  somebody 
muttered.  Sometimes  two  young  girls  fluttered 
out  of  a  door-yard,  clinging  together  with  nervous 
giggles  and  outcries,  which  were  soon  hushed. 
They  moved  along  with  the  others,  their  little 
cold  fingers  clinging  together  with  a  rigid  clutch. 
It  was  as  if  a  strange,  solemn  atmosphere  sur-l 
rounded  this  group  moving  along  the  country 
road  in  the  starlit  night.  Whoever  came  into 
their  midst  felt  it,  and  his  emotions  changed  in 
voluntarily  as  respiration  changes  on  a  mountain- , 
top. 

When  the  party  reached  a  windy  hill-top  in 
sight  of  the  lighted  windows  of  the  Lennox  house 
in  the  valley  below,  it  numbered  nearly  twenty. 
Half-way  down  the  hill  somebody  else  joined 
them.  He  had  been  standing  ahead  of  them, 
waiting  in  the  long  shadow  of  a  poplar,  and  they 
had  not  discerned  him  until  they  were  close  to 
him.  Then  he  stepped  forward  and  the  shadow 
of  the  tree  was  left  motionless.  The  young  girls 
half  screamed,  he  appeared  so  suddenly,  and  their 
nerves  were  strained.  The  elders  made  a  solemn 
hushed  murmur  of  greeting.  They  knew  as  soon 
as  he  moved  that  he  was  Isaac  Penfield.  He  had 
a  martial  carriage  of  his  shoulders,  he  was  a  cap 
tain  in  the  militia,  and  he  wore  an  ash-colored 
cloak,  which  distinguished  him. 

The  young  girls  cast  glances,  bolder  from  the 
darkness,  towards  his  stately  ash-colored  shoul- 
185 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

ders  and  the  pale  gleam,  of  his  face.  Not  one  of 
them  who  had  not  her  own  lover  but  had  her  in 
nocent  secret  dreams  about  this  Isaac  Penfield. 
Now,  had  a  light  shone  out  suddenly  in  the  dark 
ness,  their  dreams  would  have  shown  in  their 
faces. 

One  slender  girl  slunk  softly  around  in  the  rear 
darkness  and  crept  so  close  to  Isaac  Penfield  that 
his  ash-colored  cloak,  swinging  out  in  the  wind, 
brushed  her  cheek.  He  did  not  notice  her ;  in 
deed,  after  his  first  murmur  of  salutation,  he  did 
not  speak  to  any  one. 

They  all  went  in  silence  down  the  hill,  and 

flocked  into    the   yard    of  the   Lennox  house. 

There  was  a  red  flicker  of  light  in  the  kitchen 

windows  from  the  great  hearth  fire,  but  a  circle 

{    \  of  dark  heads  and  shoulders  hid  the  fire  itself 

}  from  the  new-comers.      There  was  evidently  a 

number  of  people  inside. 

Deacon  Scranton  raised  the  knocker,  and  the 
door  was  opened  immediately.  Melissa  Lennox 
stood  there  holding  a  candle  in  a  brass  candle 
stick,  with  the  soft  light  streaming  up  on  her  fair 
face.  She  looked  through  it  with  innocent,  anx 
ious  blue  eyes  at  the  company.  "Won't  you 
walk  in  ?"  she  said,  tremulously,  and  the  people 
passed  into  the  south  entry,  and  through  the  door 
on  the  left  into  the  great  Lennox  kitchen.  Some 
dozen  persons  who  had  come  from  the  other  end 
of  the  village  were  already  there. 
186 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

Isaac  Penfield  entered  last.  Melissa  did  not 
see  him  until  he  stepped  suddenly  within  her 
radius  of  candle-light.  Then  she  started,  and 
bent  her  head  before  him,  blushing.  The  candle 
shook  in  her  outstretched  hand. 

Isaac  Penfield  took  the  candle  without  a  word 
and  set  it  on  the  stairs.  Then  he  took  Melissa's 
slim  right  hand  in  his,  and  stood  a  moment  look 
ing  down  at  her  bent  head,  with  its  parted  gloss 
of  hair.  His  forehead  was  frowning,  and  yet  he 
half  smiled  with  tender  triumph. 

"Come  out  in  the  front  yard  with  me  a  mo 
ment,"  he  whispered.  He  pulled  her  with  gentle 
force  towards  the  door,  and  the  girl  yielded,  after 
a  faint  murmur  of  expostulation. 

Out  in  the  front  yard  Isaac  Penfield  folded  a 
corner  of  his  ash-colored  cloak  around  Melissa's 
slender  shoulders. 

"Now  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  Melissa,"  he 
whispered.  "You  are  not  still  carried  away  by 
all  this  ?"  He  jerked  his  head  towards  the 
kitchen  windows. 

Melissa  trembled  against  the  young  man's  side 
under  the  folds  of  his  cloak. 

"  You  are  not,  after  all  I  said  to  you,  Melissa?" 

She  nodded  against  his  breast,  with  a  faint 
sob. 

"  I  hoped  you  would  do  as  I  asked  you,  and 
cut  loose  from  this  folly,"  Isaac  Penfield  said, 
sternly. 

187 


A   NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

"Father — says — it's  true.  Oh,  I  am  afraid — 
I  am  afraid  !  My  sins  are  so  great,  and  I  cannot 
hide  from  the  eyes  of  the  Lord.  I  am  afraid  I" 

Isaac  Penfield  tightened  his  clasp  of  the  girl's 
trembling  figure,  and  bent  his  head  low  down 
over  hers.  "  Melissa,  dear,  can't  you  listen  to 
me  ?"  he  whispered. 

/     Suddenly  the  kitchen  door  opened,  and  a  new 
f  light  streamed  across  the  entry. 
'      "  Melissa,  where  be  you  ?"  called  a  woman's 
voice,  high-pitched  and  melancholy. 

"There's  mother  calling,"  Melissa  said,  in  a 
frightened  whisper,  and  she  broke  away  and  ran 
into  the  house. 

Her  mother  stood  in  the  kitchen  door.  "Where 
have  you  been  ?"  she  began.  Then  she  stopped, 
and  looked  at  Isaac  Penfield  with  a  half-shrink 
ing,  half-ajitagonistic  air.  This  stalwart  young 
man,  radiant  with  the  knowledge  of  his  own 
streng\n,  represented  to  this  delicate  woman, 
who  was  held  to  the  earth  more  by  the  tension  of 
nerves  than  the  weight  of  matter,  the  very  pride 
of  life,  the  material  power  which  she  was  to  fear 
and  fight  for  herself  and  for  her  daughter. 

"  I  thought  I  would  step  into  your  meeting 
to-night,  if  I  were  permitted,"  Isaac  Penfield 
said. 

Mrs.  Lennox  looked  at  him  with  deep  blue 
eyes  under  high,  thin  temples.     "All  are  permit 
ted  who  listen  to  the  truth  with  the  right  spirit/' 
188 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

said  she,  and  turned  shortly  and  glided  into  the 
kitchen.  Melissa  and  Isaac  followed. 

The  company  sat  in  wide  semicircles,  three 
deep,  before  the  fire.  In  the  open  space  between 
the  first  semicircle  and  the  fire,  his  wide  arm 
chair  on  the  bricks  of  the  broad  hearth,  half  fac 
ing  the  company,  sat  Solomon  Lennox.  Near 
him  sat  his  deaf-and-dumb  son  Alonzo.  He  held 
up  a  large  slate  so  the  firelight  fell  upon  it,  and 
marked  upon  it  with  a  grating  pencil.  He 
screwed  his  face  with  every  stroke,  so  it  seemed 
that  one  watching  attentively  might  discern  the 
picture  itself  from  his  changing  features. 

Alonzo  Lennox  was  fourteen  years  old,  but  he 
looked  no  more  than  ten,  and  he  had  been  deaf 
and  dumb  from  his  birth.  The  firelight  gave  a 
reddish  tinge  to  his  silvery  blond  hair,  spreading 
out  stiffly  from  the  top  of  his  head  over  his  ears 
like  the  thatch  of  a  hut.  His  delicate  irregular 
profile  bent  over  the  slate ;  now  and  then  a  spasm 
of  silent  merriment  shook  his  narrow  chest,  and 
the  surrounding  people  looked  at  him  with  awe. 
They  regarded  it  as  the  mystic  ecstasy  of  a  seer. 

Melissa  and  her  mother  had  slid  softly  through 
the  semicircles  to  the  chairs  they  had  left.  Isaac 
Penfield  stood  on  the  outskirts,  towering  over  all 
the  people,  refusing  a  seat  which  somebody  of 
fered  him.  He  threw  off  his  ash-colored  cloak 
and  held  it  on  his  arm.  His  costume  of  fine 
broadcloth  and  flowered  satin  and  glittering  but* 
189 


A   NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

tons  surpassed  any  there,  as  did  his  face  and  his 
height  and  his  carriage ;  and,  more  than  all,  he 
stood  among  the  others  raised  upon  a  spiritual 
eminence,  unseen,  but  none  the  less  real,  which  j 
his  ancestors  had  reared  for  him  before  his  birth./ 
The  Penfield  name  had  been  a  great  one  in  that 
vicinity  for  three  generations.  Once  Penfields 
had  owned  the  larger  part  of  the  township. 
Isaac's  father,  and  his  grandfather  before  him, 
had  been  esquires,  and  held  as  nearly  the  posi 
tion  of  lords  of  this  little  village  as  was  possible 
in  New  England.  Now  this  young  man  was  the 
last  of  his  race,  living,  with  his  housekeeper  and 
an  old  servant,  in  the  Penfield  homestead ;  and 
the  village  adulation  which  had  been  accorded 
to  his  ancestors  was  his  also  in  a  large  measure. 

To-night,  as  he  entered,  people  glanced  at  him, 
away  from  Alonzo  and  his  slate,  but  only  for  a 
moment.  The  matter  under  discussion  that  night 
was  too  solemn  and  terrible  to  be  lost  sight  of 
long. 

In  about  ten  minutes  after  Isaac  Penfield  en 
tered,  the  boy  gave  a  shout,  grating  and  hideous, 
with  a  discord  of  human  thoughts  and  senses  in 
it.  A  shudder  passed  over  the  company  like  a 
wind. 

Alonzo  Lennox  sprang  up  and  waved  the  slate, 

and  his  father  reached  out  for  it.      "  Give  it  to 

me,"  he  demanded,  sternly,  as  if  the  boy  could 

hear.    But  Alonzo  gave  another  shout,  and  leaped 

190 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

aside,  and  waved  the  slate  out  of  his  father's 
reach.  Then  he  danced  lightly  tip  and  down  on 
the  tips  of  his  toes,  shaking  his  head  and  flinging 
out  fantastic  heels.  His  shock  of  hair  flew  out 
wildly,  and  looked  like  a  luminous  crown;  the 
firelight  struck  his  dilated  eyes,  and  they  gleamed 
redT 

The  people  watched  him  with  sobbing  breaths 
and  pale  faces,  all  except  Isaac  Penfield  and  one 
other.  Isaac  stood  looking  at  him,  with  his 
mouth  curling  in  a  scornful  smile.  Solomon 
Lennox  stood  aside  with  a  startled  air,  then  he 
caught  the  boy  firmly  by  the  arm  and  grasped  the 
slate. 

Alonzo  grinned  impishly  in  his  father's  face, 
then  he  let  go  the  slate,  and  sank  down  on  his 
stool  in  the  chimney-corner.  There  he  sat  sub 
missive  and  inactive,  except  for  the  cunning, 
sharp  flash  of  his  blue  eyes  under  his  thatch  of 
hair. 

Solomon  Lennox  held  the  slate  to  the  light  and 
looked  at  it,  while  the  people  waited  breathless, 
their  pale  intent  faces  bent  forward.  Then  he 
handed  the  slate,  without  a  word,  to  the  man  at 
the  end  of  the  first  semicircle,  and  it  was  circu 
lated  through  the  entire  company.  As  one  passed 
the  slate  to  another  a  shuddering  thrill  like  an 
electric  shock  seemed  to  be  passed  with  it,  and 
there  was  a  faint  murmur  of  horror. 

Isaac  Penfield  held  the  slate  longest,  and  ex- 
191 


A   NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

amined  it  closely.  Drawn  with  a  free  hand, 
which  certainly  gave  evidence  of  some  inborn 
artistic  skill  aside  from  aught  else,  were  great 
sweeping  curves  of  wings  upbearing  an  angel 
with  a  trumpet  at  his  mouth.  Under  his  feet 
were  lashing  tongues  as  of  flames,  with  upturned 
faces  of  agony  in  the  midst  of  them.  And  every 
where,  between  the  wings  and  the  angel  and  the 
flames  and  the  faces,  were,  in  groups  of  five,  those 
grotesque  little  symbols  of  the  sun,  a  disk  with 
human  features  therein,  which  one  sees  in  the 
almanacs. 

After  Isaac  Penfield  had  finished  looking  at  the 
mystic  slate  he  passed  it  to  Solomon  Lennox's 
elder  brother,  Simeon,  who  sat  at  his  right.  The 
old  man's  hard  shaven  jaws  widened  in  a  sardonic 
grin ;  his  small  black  eyes  twinkled  derisively 
over  the  drawings.  "  Pretty  pictures,"  he  said, 
half  aloud.  Then  he  passed  the  slate  along  with 
a  contemptuous  chuckle,  which  was  heard  in  the 
solemn  stillness  all  over  the  room. 

Solomon  Lennox  gave  a  furious  glance  in  his 
brother's  direction.  "  This  is  no  time  nor  season 
for  scoffers  !"  cried  he.  And  his  voice  seemed  to 
shock  the  air  like  a  musket-shot. 

Simeon  Lennox  chuckled  again.  Solomon's 
right  hand  clinched.  He  arose ;  then  sat  down 
again,  with  his  mouth  compressed.  He  sat  still 
until  the  slate  had  gone  its  rounds  and  returned 
to  the  boy,  who  sat  contemplating  it  with  un- 
192 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

couth  delight ;  then  he  stood  up,  and  the  words 
flowed  from  his  mouth  in  torrents.  Never  at  a 
loss  for  subject-matter  of  speech  was  Solomon 
Lennox.  By  the  fluency  of  his  discourse  he 
might  well  have  been  thought  inspired.  He 
spoke  of  visions  of  wings  and  holy  candlesticks 
and  beasts  and  cups  of  abomination  as  if  he  had 
with  his  own  eyes  seen  them  like  the  prophet  of 
old.  He  expounded  strange  and  subtle  mathe 
matical  calculations  and  erratic  interpretations 
of  history  as  applied  to  revelation  with  a  fervor 
which  brought  conviction  to  his  audience.  He 
caught  the  slate  from  his  deaf-and-dumb  son,  and 
explained  the  weird  characters  thereon.  The 
five  suns  were  five  days.  Five  times  the  sun 
should  arise  in  the  east,  as  it  had  done  from  the 
creation ;  then  should  the  angel,  upborne  on 
those  great  white  wings,  sound  his  trumpet,  and 
the  flames  burst  forth  from  the  lower  pit,  and 
those  upturned  faces  in  the  midst  of  them  gnash 
with  despair. 

"  Repent,  for  the  day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand  !" 
shouted  Solomon  Lennox  at  the  close  of  his  ar 
guments,  and  his  voice  itself  rang  like  a  trumpet 
full  of  all  intonations  and  reverberations,  of  awe 
and  dread.  "  Repent,  for  the  great  and  dreadful 
day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand  !  Repent  while  there 
is  yet  time,  while  there  is  yet  a  foothold  on  the 
shore  of  the  lake  of  fire  !  Repent,  repent !  Prepare 
your  ascension  robes  !  Renounce  the  world, 
w  193 


A   NEW    ENGLAND    PKOPHET 

all  the  lust  and  the  vanity  thereof  !  Repent,  for 
the  day  of  judgment  is  here  !  Soon  shall  ye  choke 
with  the  smoke  of  the  everlasting  burning,  soon 
shall  your  eyes  he  scorched  with  the  fiery  scroll 
of  the  heavens,  your  ears  be  deafened  with  the 
blast  of  the  trumpet  of  wrath,  and  the  cry  against 
you  of  your  own  sins  !  Repent,  repent,  repent !" 

Solomon  Lennox's  slight  figure  writhed  with 
his  own  emotion  as  with  internal  fire ;  the  veins 
swelled  out  on  his  high  bald  forehead ;  his  eyes 
blazed  with  fanatical  light.  Aside  from  the  star 
tling  nature  of  his  discourse,  he  himself  was  a 
marvel,  and  a  terror  to  his  neighbors.  His  com 
plete  deviation  from  a  former  line  of  life  produced 
among  them  the  horror  of  the  supernatural.  He 
affected  them  like  his  own  ghost.  He  had  always 
been  a  man  of  few  and  quiet  words,  who  had 
never  expressed  his  own  emotions  in  public  be 
yond  an  inaudible,  muttered  prayer  at  a  confer 
ence  meeting,  and  now  this  flood  of  fiery  elo 
quence  from  him  seemed  like  a  very  convulsion 
of  human  nature. 

When  a  great  physical  malady  is  epidemic 
there  are  often  isolated  cases  in  remote  localities 
whose  connection  with  the  main  disturbance  can 
not  be  established.  So  in  this  little  New  Eng 
land  village,  far  from  a  railroad,  scarcely  reached 
by  the  news  of  the  day,  Solomon  Lennox  had  de 
veloped  within  himself,  with  seeming  spontaneity,  > 
some  of  the  startling  tenets  of  Joseph  Miller, 
194 


A   NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

and  had  established  his  own  small  circle  of  de 
voted  disciples  and  followers.     It  was  as  if  somen 
germs  of  a  great  spiritual  disturbance  had  sought, 
through  some  unknown  medium,  this  man's  mind  ] 
as  their  best  ripening  place. 

After  Solomon  had  arisen  one  night  in  confer 
ence  meeting  and  poured  forth  his  soul  to  his 
startled  neighbors  in  a  strain  of  fiery  prophecy, 
Millerite  publications  had  been  sent  for,  and  he 
had  strengthened  his  own  theories  with  those  of 
the  original  leader,  although  in  many  respects 
his  maintained  a  distinct  variance. 

The  effect  of  Solomon's  prophecies  had  been 
greatly  enhanced  by  the  drawings  of  his  deaf-and- 
dumb  son.  Alonzo  Lennox's  slate,  covered  with 
rude  representations  of  beasts  and  trumpets  and 
winged  creatures— the  weird  symbolic  figures  of 
the  prophet  Daniel  —  had  aroused  a  tumult  of 
awe  and  terror  in  the  village.  And  the  more  so 
because  the  boy  had  never  learned  the  language 
of  the  deaf  and  dumb,  and  had  no  ordinary  and 
comprehensible  means  of  acquiring  information 
upon  such  topics. 

To-night,  as  his  father  spoke,  he  kept  his  blue 
eyes  upon  his  face  with  such  a  keen  look  that  it 
seemed  almost  impossible  that  he  did  not  hear 
and  comprehend  every  word.  Unbelievers  in  this 
new  movement  were  divided  between  the  opinion 
that  Lonny  Lennox  had  heard  more  than  folks 
had  given  him  credit  for  right  along,  and  the 
195 


A   NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

one  that  he  understood  by  some  strange  power 
which  the  loss  of  his  other  faculties  had  sharp 
ened. 

ef  The  boy  has  developed  the  sixth  sense,"  Isaac 
Penfield  thought  as  he  watched  his  intent  face 
upturned  towards  his  father's ;  and  he  also 
thought  impatiently  that  he  should  be  cuffed  and 
sent  to  bed  for  his  uncanny  sharpness.  He  grew 
more  and  more  indignant  as  the  time  went  on 
and  the  excitement  deepened.  He  watched  Me 
lissa  grow  paler  and  paler,  and  finally  press  her 
slender  hands  over  her  face,  and  shake  with  sobs, 
and  made  a  sudden  motion  as  if  he  would  go  to 
her.  Then  he  restrained  himself,  and  muttered 
something  between  his  teeth. 

Old  Simeon  Lennox  watched  him  curiously, 
then  he  hit  him  in  the  side  with  a  sharp  elbow. 
"Made  up  your  mind  to  go  up  in  our  family 
chariot  on  the  last  day  ?"  he  whispered,  with  a 
hoarse  whistle  of  breath  in  Isaac's  ear.  Then 
he  leaned  back,  with  a  long  cackle  of  laughter  in 
his  throat,  which  was  unheard  in  the  din  of  his 
brother's  raging  voice  and  the  responsive  groans 
and  sobs. 

Isaac  Penfield  colored,  and  kept  his  eyes 
straight  forward  and  his  head  up  with  a  haughty 
air.  Presently  the  old  man  nudged  him  again, 
with  the  sharpness  of  malice  protected  by  help 
lessness.  "  Guess,"  he  whispered,  craning  up  to 
the  young  mail's  handsome,  impatient 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

"guess  yon  'ain't  much  opinion  of  all  this  darned 
tomfoolery  neither." 

Isaac  shook  his  head  fiercely. 

"  Well/'  said  the  old  man,  "  let  'em  go  it/'  and 
he  cackled  with  laughter  again. 

After  Solomon  Lennox  had  finished  his  fervid 
appeal,  two  or  three  offered  prayers,  and  many 
testified  and  confessed  sins,  and  professed  repent 
ance,  and  terror  of  the  wrath  to  come,  in  hoarse, 
strained  voices,  half  drowned  by  sobs  and  cries. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  before  Solomon  Lennox 
declared  the  meeting  at  a  close,  and  recommended 
the  brethren  and  sisters  to  repair  to  their  homes, 
not  to  sleep,  but  to  pray,  and  appointed  another 
session  for  the  next  forenoon,  for  these  meetings 
of  terror-stricken  and  contrite  souls  were  held 
three  times  a  day — morning,  afternoon,  and  even 
ing.  In  those  days  the  housewives'  kitchen  tables 
were  piled  high  with  unwashed  dishes,  the  hearths 
were  unswept  and  the  fires  low,  the  pantry  shelves 
were  bare,  and  often  the  children  went  to  bed 
with  only  the  terrors  of  the  judgment  for  suste 
nance. 

In  those  days  the  cattle  grew  lean,  and  stood 
lowing  piteously  long  after  nightfall  at  the  past 
ure  bars.  Even  the  horses  turned  in  their  stalls 
at  every  footfall  and  whinnied  for  food.  Men 
lost  all  thought  for  their  earthly  goods  in  their 
fierce  concern  for  their  own  souls. 

The  people  flocked  out  of  Solomon  Lennox's 
197 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

kitchen,  some  with  rapt  eyes,  some  white-faced 
and  trembling,  huddling  together  as  if  with  a  for 
lorn  hope  that  human  companionship  might  avail 
somewhat  even  against  divine  judgment.  The 
deaf-and-dumb  boy  went  sleepily  out  of  the  room 
and  up-stairs  with  his  candle,  leaving  his  slate  on 
the  hearthstone.  Isaac  Penfield  stood  a  few  min 
utes  looking  irresolutely  at  Melissa,  who  sat  still 
with  her  hands  pressed  tightly  over  her  face,  as 
if  she  were  weeping.  Her  mother  stood  near 
her,  talking  to  Abby  Mosely,  who  was  Simeon 
Lennox's  housekeeper.  The  woman  was  fairly 
gasping  with  emotion;  her  broad  shawled  bosom 
heaved. 

"  Eepent !"  cried  Mrs.  Lennox,  loud,  in  her 
ears,  like  an  echo  of  her  husband.  "  Repent ; 
there  is  yet  time  !  There  are  five  days  before 
the  heavens  open !  Repent !"  Her  nervous 
hands  served  to  intensify  her  weak,  straining 
voice.  They  pointed  and  threatened  in  the  wom 
an's  piteous,  scared  face.  Isaac  started  to  ap 
proach  Melissa  ;  then  her  mother  half  turned  and 
seemed  to  shriek  out  her  warning  cry  towards 
him,  and  he  tossed  his  gray  cloak  over  his  shoul 
ders,  strode  out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the 
house. 

Old  Simeon  Lennox  lingered  behind  the  others. 

"I'm  a-comin'  right  along,  Abby,"  he  called 
to  his  housekeeper  when  she  started  to  leave  the 
room.  "If  ye  go  to  bed  afore  I  come,  mind  ye 
198 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

pnfc  the  cat  out,  so  she  won't  get  afoul  of  that 
pig  meat  in  the  pantry."  Simeon  spoke  with 
cool  disregard  of  the  distressed  sobs  and  moans 
with  which  the  woman  was  making  her  exit. 

"D'ye  hear  what  I  say,  Abby  ?"  he  called, 
sharply,  when  she  did  not  reply. 

The  housekeeper  groaned  a  faint  assent  over 
her  shoulder  as  she  crossed  the  threshold. 

"Well,  mind  ye  don't  forgit  it/'  said  Simeon, 
"for  I  tell  ye  what  'tis,  if  that  cat  does  git  afoul 
of  that  pig  meat,  there'll  be  a  jedgement  afore 
Thursday." 

The  old  man  clamped  leisurely  across  the  room, 
drew  an  arm-chair  close  to  the  fire,  and  settled 
into  it  with  a  grunting  yawn. 

"Fire  feels  good,"  he  remarked.  His  voice 
was  thick,  for  he  had  tobacco  in  his  mouth. 

"  Woe  be  unto  you,  Simeon  Lennox,  if  you  can 
still  think  of  the  comfort  of  your  poor  body  which 
will  soon  be  ashes,"  cried  his  sister-in-law.  She 
waved  before  him  like  a  pale  flame ;  her  white 
face  seemed  fairly  luminous. 

Simeon  shifted  his  tobacco  into  one  cheek  as 
he  stared  at  her.  "  You'd  better  go  to  bed, 
Sophy  Anne  ;  you're  gittin'  highstericky,"  said 
he,  and  chewed  again. 

"Woe  be  unto  you,  fer  the  bed  you  shall  lie 
on,  unless  you  repent,  Simeon  Lennox  !" 

"  Look  at  here,  Sophy  Anne,"  said  Simeon, 
"ain't  you  got  no  mince-pies  in  the  house  ?" 
199 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

Mrs.  Lennox  looked  at  him,  speechless,  for  a 
moment. 

"  If  you  have,"  Simeon  went  on,  "I  wish  you'd 
give  me  a  piece.  I  'ain't  had  no  mince-pie  fit  to 
eat  I  dun'no'  when.  Abby  Mosely  waVt  never 
much  of  a  cook,  and  sence  she's  took  to  goin'  to 
your  meetin'  here  three  times  a  day,  it's  much  as 
ever's  I  get  anything.  It  ain't  no  more'n  fair, 
Sophy  Anne,  that  you  should  give  me  a  piece  of 
mince-pie,  if  you've  got  any." 

Mrs.  Lennox  broke  in  upon  him  with  a  cry 
which  was  almost  a  shriek.  "  I  shall  make  no 
more  pies  in  this  world,  Simeon  Lennox.  Woe 
be  unto  you  !  Woe  be  unto  you  if  you  think  of 
such  things  in  the  face  of  death  and  eternal  con 
demnation  !" 

Solomon  Lennox  had  followed  the  departing 
people  into  the  yard.  His  exhorting  voice  could 
still  be  heard  out  there,  for  the  doors  were 
open. 

Simeon  looked  around  and  shivered.  "If  you 
'ain't  got  no  mince -pie,  I  wish  you'd  shet  that 
door,  Sophy  Anne/'  he  said. 

Sophia  Anne  Lennox  stood  looking  at  him 
for  a  minute.  He  chuckled  in  her  face.  She 
snatched  a  candle  from  the  shelf  and  went  out 
of  the  room  with  an  air  of  desperation. 

Melissa  rose  up  and  crept  after  her,  her  face 
like  a  drooping  white  flower,  gliding  so  closely  in 
her  mother's  wake  that  she  seemed  to  have  no 
200 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

individual  motion  of  her  own.     Simeon  looked 
hard  at  her  as  she  went. 

"Sophy  Anne  is  wiry/'  he  said,  when  his  broth 
er  came  in.  "  She'll  go  it  all  right  if  the  wires 
don't  snap,  an'  I  reckon  they  won't ;  but  you'd 
better  look  out  for  Melissy.  She  can't  stan' 
such  tearin'  work  as  this  very  long.  She'll  have 
a  fever  or  somethin'." 

"  What  matters  that  ?"  cried  Solomon.  <e  What 
matters  any  tribulation  of  the  flesh  when  the  end 
of  all  flesh  is  at  hand  ?"  His  voice  was  hoarse 
with  his  long  clamor.  He  leaned  over  and  shook  a 
nervous  fist  impressively  before  his  brother's  face. 

Simeon  chewed  on,  and  looked  at  the  fist  with 
out  winking.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say,  Solomon 
Lennox,"  said  he  at  length,  "  that  you  believe  all 
this  darned  tomfoolery  ?" 

His  brother  looked  at  him  with  solemn  wrath. 
{ '  Do  I  believe  revelation  and  the  prophets  ?"  he 
cried.  "Woe  be  unto  all  scoffers,  even  though 
they  be  my  own  flesh  and  blood  !" 

"Now,  Solomon,  I'll  jest  stump  ye  to  point 
out  any  passage  in  the  Scripturs  that  says,  up 
an'  down,  square  an'  fair,  that  the  world's  comin* 
to  an  end  next  Thursday.  I'll  jest  stump  ye  to 
do  it." 

"There  are  passages  that  point  to  the  truth, 
and  I  have  repeated  them  to-night,"  replied  Sol 
omon,  hotly. 

"  Passages  that  ye've  had  to  twist  hind-side  / 
201 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

foremost,  an'  bottom-side  up,  an'  add,  an'  sub 
tract,  an'  divide,  an'  multiply,  an'  hammer,  an' 
saw,  an'  bile  down,  an'  take  to  a  grist-mill,  afore 
you  got  at  the  meanin'  you  wanted,"  returned  his 
brother,  contemptuously.  "  That  ain't  the  kind 
of  passage  I'm  after.  There's  too  much  two- 
facedness  an'  double-dealin'  about  the  Scripturs 
anyway,  judgin'  by  some  of  you  folks.  What  I 
want  is  a  square  up  an'  down  passage  that  says, 
without  no  chance  of  its  meanin'  anything  else, 
'  The  world  is  comin'  to  an  end  next  week  Thurs 
day.'  I  stump  ye  to  show  me  sech  a  passage  as 
that.  Ye  can't  do  it !" 

The  habits  of  a  lifetime  are  strong  even  in 
strained  and  exalted  states,  acting  like  the  lash 
of  a  familiar  whip.  Solomon  Lennox  was  the 
younger  brother  ;  all  his  life  he  had  borne  a  cer 
tain  docility  of  attitude  towards  Simeon,  which 
asserted  itself  now. 

The  fervid  orator  stood  for  a  moment  silent 
before  this  sceptical,  sneering  elder  brother.  "I'd 
like  to  know  how  you  account  for  Lonny's  draw- 
in's,"  he  said  at  length,  in  a  tone  which  he  might 
have  used  when  bullied  by  Simeon  in  their  boy 
hood. 

"Drawin's,"  drawled  Simeon,  and  sarcasm  it 
self  seemed  to  hiss  in  the  final  s — t(  dr-r-awin's  ! 
The  little  scamp  is  sharp  as  steel,  an'  he's  watched 
an'  he's  eyed  till  he's  put  two  an'  two  together. 
It's  easy  enough  to  account  for  the  drawin's.  The 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

air  here  has  been  so  thick  lately  with  wings  an' 
wheels  an'  horns  an'  trumpets  an'  everlastin'  fire 
that  anybody  that  waVt  an  idgit  could  breathe 
it  in.  An'  I  miss  my  guess  if  his  mother  'ain't 
showed  him  the  picturs  in  the  big  Bible  mor'n 
once  when  you've  been  talkin',  an'  pointed  out 
the  hearth  fire  an'  the  candlesticks  an'  the  pow 
der-horn.  Sophy  Anne's  sharp,  an'  she's  done 
more  to  learn  that  boy  than  anybody  knows  of, 
though  I've  got  my  doubts  now  as  to  how  straight 
he's  really  got  it  in  his  mind.  Lord,  them  draw 
ing  ain't  nothin'.  Solomon  Lennox,  you  can't 
look  me  in  the  face  an'  say  that  you  actilly  be 
lieve  all  this  darned  tomfoolery  !" 

Solomon  for  these  few  minutes  had  been  on  the 
old  level  of  a  brotherly  argument,  but  now  he 
arose  suddenly  to  his  latter  heights. 

"I  believe  that  the  end  of  the  world  is  near, 
that  the  great  and  dreadful  day  of  the  Lord  is  at 
hand,  accordin'  to  prophecy  and  revelation,"  he 
proclaimed,  and  his  eyes  shone  under  his  high 
forehead  as  under  a  majestic  dome  of  thought 
and  inspiration. 

Simeon  whistled.  "  Ye  don't,  though.  Look 
at  here,  Solomon  ;  tell  ye  what  I'll  do.  I'll  put 
ye  to  the  test.  Look  at  here,  you  say  the  world's 
comin'  to  an  end  next  Thursday.  Well,  it  stands 
to  reason  if  it  is,  that  you  'ain't  got  no  more  need 
of  temporal  goods.  S'pose — you  give  me  a  deed 
of  this  'ere  farm  ?" 

203 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PEOPHET 

Solomon  stared  at  his  brother. 

Simeon  shook  his  fist  at  him  slowly.  "Ye 
won't  do  it,"  he  said,  with  a  triumphant  chuckle. 

"  I  will  do  it." 

"  Git  Lawyer  Bascombe  to  draw  up  the  papers 
to-morrow  ?" 

"JwiU." 

"  Me  to  take  possession  by  daylight  next  Friday 
mornin',  if  the  world  don't  come  to  an  end  Thurs 
day  night  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Solomon,  hurling  the  word  at 
his  brother  like  a  stone. 

Simeon  got  up  and  buttoned  his  coat  over  his 
lean  chest.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  I've  had  pretty 
hard  luck.  I've  lost  three  wives,  and  I've  been 
burnt  out  twice,  an'  the  last  house  ain't  none 
too  tight.  I'll  move  right  in  here  next  Friday 
mornin'  at  daylight.  Mebbe  I'll  get  married 
again." 

"  Much  good  will  the  heaping  up  of  barns  an' 
storehouses  do  when  you  hear  the  voice  of  the 
Lord  saying,  '  Thou  fool,  this  night  shall  thy  soul 
be  required  of  thee,' "  returned  his  brother  ;  but 
he  spoke  the  fervid  words  with  a  certain  feeble 
ness.  All  his  life  since  he  was  a  boy  had  Solo 
mon  Lennox  toiled  and  saved  to  own  this  noble 
farm.  The  bare  imagination  of  giving  it  up  to 
another  cost  him  much,  although  he  firmly  be 
lieved  that  in  a  week's  space  it  would  be  only  a 
modicum  of  the  blackened  ashes  of  a  world.  He 
204 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

stood  the  test  of  bis  faith,  but  he  felt  the  scorch 
of  sacrificial  fldtfne. 

"  It  ain't  me  that's  the  fool,"  said  Simeon,  shrug 
ging  himself  into  his  great-coat.  "I  ain't  goin' 
to  hang  back  with  my  soul  when  it's  required  of 
me,  but  I  ain't  goin'  to  keep  chuckin'  of  it  in  the 
face  of  the  Lord  afore  lie's  ready  for  it,  like  some 
folks  I  know.  Them's  the  fools.  When  '11  you 
be  down  to  Lawyer  Bascombe's  to-morrow,  Solo 
mon,  to  deed  away  these  barns  an'  storehouses 
that  you  'ain't  no  more  use  for  ?" 

"  I'll  be  down  there  at  nine  o'clock  to-morrow 
mornin'." 

"All  right;  you  can  count  on  me,"  said  Sim 
eon.  He  went  out,  and  Solomon  bolted  the  door 
after  him  promptly.  But  he  had  no  sooner  re 
turned  to  the  kitchen  than  there  came  a  sharp 
tap  on  the  window,  and  there  was  Simeon's  hard 
leering  old  face  pressed  against  the  pane.  "You'll 
— have — to — fetch  Sophy  Anne  down  there  to 
morrow,"  he  called.  "She'll — have  to  sign  that 
deed  too,  or  it  won't  stan'." 

"All  right,"  shouted  Solomon,  and  the  face  at 
the  window,  with  a  parting  nod,  disappeared. 

Lawyer  Bascombe's  office  was  in  the  centre  of 
the  village,  over  the  store.  A  steep  flight  of 
stairs  at  the  right  of  the  store  led  to  it.  Up 
these  stairs,  at  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning, 
climbed  Solomon  Lennox  and  his  wife  Sophia 
Anne,  with  pale  devoted  faces,  and  signed  away 
205 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

all  their  earthly  goods  as  an  evidence  of  their 
faith. 

In  some  way  the  matter  had  become  known  in 
the  village.  When  Solomon  and  Sophia  Anne 
came  down  the  stairs  there  was  quite  a  crowd  he- 
fore  the  door,  standing  back  with  awed  curiosity 
to  let  them  pass.  Simeon  Lennox  did  not  leave 
at  once  after  the  signing  of  the  deed.  When  he 
appeared  in  the  doorway  with  a  roll  of  paper  in 
his  hand  the  crowd  had  dispersed. 

Without  any  doubt  this  act  of  Solomon  Len 
nox  and  his  wife  materially  strengthened  their 
cause.  When  it  became  known  that  they  had 
actually  signed  away  their  property  in  their  con 
fidence  that  days  of  property-holding  were  over, 
even  scoffers  began  to  look  serious.  That  even 
ing  the  meeting  at  Solomon  Lennox's  house  num 
bered  a  third  more  than  usual.  The  next  even 
ing  it  was  doubled,  and  the  best  room  as  well  as 
the  kitchen  was  filled.  Solomon  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  in  the  entry  between  the  rooms 
and  exhorted,  while  the  deaf-and-dumb  boy's 
slate  circulated  among  the  awe-stricken  people. 

Isaac  Penfield  came  to  no  more  meetings,  and 
he  did  not  see  Melissa  again  until  Tuesday.  Late 
Tuesday  afternoon  she  went  up  to  the  village 
store  with  a  basket  of  eggs.  The  days  of  barter 
were  nearly  over,  as  she  had  been  taught  to  be 
lieve,  but  there  was  no  molasses  in  the  house,  and 
the  poor  deaf-and-dumb  boy  was  weeping  for  it 
206 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

with  uncouth  grief,  and  could  not  be  comforted 
by  the  prospect  of  eternal  joys.  When  Melissa 
came  out  of  the  store  with  the  bottle  of  molas 
ses  in  her  basket,  Isaac  Penfield's  bay  mare  and 
chaise  were  drawn  up  before  the  platform,  and 
Isaac  stood  waiting.  Melissa  started  and  colored 
when  she  saw  him. 

"  Get  in,  please/'  he  said,  motioning  her  tow 
ards  the  chaise. 

She  looked  at  him  falteringly. 

"  Get  in,  please,  Melissa ;  I  want  to  speak  to 
you/7 

The  bay  mare  was  restive,  tossing  her  head 
and  pawing  with  one  delicate  fore  foot.  Isaac 
conld  scarcely  keep  her  quiet  until  Melissa  got 
in.  When  he  took  the  reins  she  gave  a  leap  for 
ward,  and  the  chaise  swung  about  with  a  lurch. 
Isaac  threw  himself  back  and  held  the  reins  taut; 
the  mare  flew  down  the  road,  pulling  hard  on  her 
bits ;  the  chaise  rocked  high  on  the  frozen  road. 
Melissa  sat  still,  her  delicate  face  retired  within 
the  dark  depths  of  her  silk  hood. 

Isaac  did  not  speak  to  her  until  they  reached 
the  foot  of  a  long  hill.  "  I  want  to  ask  you  some 
thing,"  he  said  then,  with  a  wary  eye  still  on  the 
straining  shoulders  of  the  mare.  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  again  to  give  this  up/7 

Melissa  did  not  speak. 

"Won't  you  promise  me  ?" 

"  I  can't,"  she  said,  faintly. 
207 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

"  Yon  can  if  yon  will."  Suddenly  Isaac  leaned 
over  her.  "  Won't  yon  promise  me,  Melissa  ?" 

She  shrank  away  from  him.  "  I — can't.  I  be 
lieve  father." 

"  Melissa,  yon  don't." 

"  I  do,"  said  she,  with  a  despairing  sob. 

Isaac  Penfield  bent  his  face  down  close  to  hers. 
"  Can't  yon  believe  me  as  well  as  yonr  father  ? 
Melissa,  look  at  me." 

Melissa  bent  her  head  down  over  her  hands. 

"Look  at  me,  Melissa." 

She  raised  her  head  slowly  as  if  there  were  a 
constraining  hand  nnder  her  chin,  and  her  eyes 
met  his. 

"  Can't  yon,  Melissa  ?" 

Fair  locks  of  hair  fell  over  the  girl's  gentle 
cheeks  ;  her  soft  month  qnivered.  It  seemed  as 
if  her  piteous  bine  eyes  were  only  upheld  by  the 
look  in  the  yonng  man's,  and  as  if  all  the  indi 
vidual  thought  and  purpose  in  her  face  and  her 
whole  soul  were  being  overcast  by  his  imperious 
will,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Can't  you,  Melissa  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

Isaac  Penfield's  face  turned  white.  He  touched 
the  whip  to  the  mare,  and  she  gave  a  sharp  bound 
forward.  They  had  not  much  farther  to  go. 
Neither  of  them  spoke  again  until  Isaac  assisted 
Melissa  out  of  the  chaise  at  her  own  gate. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  then,  shortly. 
208 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

Melissa  looked  up  at  him  and  caught  her  breath. 
She  could  not  speak.  Isaac  sprang  into  his 
chaise,  and  was  out  of  the  yard  with  a  sharp 
grate  of  wheels,  and  she  went  into  the  house. 

Her  mother  was  setting  chairs  in  order  for  the 
evening  meeting.  She  looked  up  sharply  as  Me 
lissa  entered. 

"  Who  was  that  brought  you  home  ?"  said  she. 

"  Isaac  Penfield,"  replied  Melissa,  turning  her 
face  from  her  mother's  eyes. 

"  I  hope  you  ain't  letting  your  thoughts  dwell 
on  anything  of  that  kind  now/'  said  her  mother. 

"  I  met  him  as  I  was  coming  out  of  the  store, 
and  he  asked  me  to  ride.  I  sha'n't  ever  see  him 
again,"  Melissa  returned,  faintly. 

The  deaf-and-dumb  boy  had  been  dozing  with 
gaping  mouth  in  his  chimney-corner.  Now  he 
waked,  and  caught  sight  of  his  sister  and  the  bas 
ket,  and  hastened  to  her  with  a  cry  of  uncouth 
hunger  and  greediness. 

"In  a  minute,  sonny,"  Melissa  said,  in  a  sob 
bing  voice;  "wait  a  minute."  She  held  the 
basket  aloof  while  she  removed  her  hood  and 
shawl. 

"  You  may  see  him  on  his  way  to  the  outer 
darkness,"  said  her  mother,  with  solemn  vindic- 
tiveness. 

"  Mother,  he  has  repented  ;  he  is  a  member  of 
the  church,"  Melissa  cried  out,  with  sudden 
sharpness. 

o  209 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PKOPHET 

"  Kepentance  avails  nothing  without  faith," 
returned  her  mother,  setting  down  a  chair  so 
heavily  that  the  deaf-and-dumb  boy  started  at 
the  concussion  and  looked  about  him  wonder- 
ingly. 

He  has  repented ;    he  is  a  member  of  the 
V  church  ;  he  is  safe,"  Melissa  cried  again. 

"I  tell  you  he  is  not,"  said  her  mother. 

Melissa  went  into  the  pantry  with  her  brother 
at  her  elbow,  and  prepared  for  him  a  plate  of 
bread  and  molasses.  The  tears  fell  over  her 
cheeks,  but  Alonzo  noticed  nothing.  His  greedy 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  food.  When  it  was  ready 
for  him  he  sat  down  on  his  stool  in  the  chimney- 
corner  and  devoured  it  with  loud  smacks  of  his 
lips.  That  was  all  the  evening  meal  prepared  in 
the  Lennox  house  that  night.  After  the  chairs 
were  set  in  order  for  the  meeting,  Melissa  and 
her  mother  sat  down  close  to  the  fire  and  sewed 
on  some  white  stuff  which  flowed  in  voluminous 
folds  over  their  knees  to  the  floor.  Solomon 
came  in  presently,  and  seated  himself  with  the 
great  Bible  on  his  knees.  He  read  silently,  but 
now  and  then  gesticulated  fiercely,  as  if  he  read 
aloud. 

The  meeting  began  at  half-past  six.  About  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before,  the  outer  door  was 
heard  opening,  and  there  was  a  shuffling  step  and 
a  clearing  cough  in  the  entry. 

"  It's  your  uncle  Simeon,"  whispered  Mrs.  Len- 
210 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

nox  to  Melissa,  and  her  mouth  took  on  a  severer 
tension. 

Solomon  frowned  over  the  Holy  Writ  on  his 
knee. 

Simeon  advanced  into  the  room,  his  heavy 
boots  clapping  the  floor  with  a  dull  clatter  as  of 
wood,  dispelling  the  solemn  stillness.  His  grin 
ning  old  face,  bltie  with  the  cold,  was  sunk  in  the 
collar  of  his  great-coat.  He  rubbed  his  hands  to 
gether  as  he  approached  the  tire. 

"Well,  how  arc  ye  all  ?"  he  remarked,  with  a 
chuckle,  as  if  there  were  a  joke  in  the  speech. 

Nobody  replied.  Simeon  pulled  a  chair  up 
close  to  the  fire  and  sat  down. 

"  It's  tarnal  cold,"  said  he,  leaning  over  and 
spreading  out  his  old  hands  to  the  blaze. 

"The  brands  are  all  ready  for  the  burning," 
said  his  sister-in-law,  in  a  hollow,  trembling  voice. 
She  drew  a  long  thread  through  the  white  stuff 
on  her  knee. 

Simeon  turned  suddenly  and  looked  at  her  with 
a  flash  of  small  bright  eyes.  Then  he  laughed. 
"  Lord  bless  ye,  Sophy  Anne,  I  forgot  how  tarnal 
hot  you  folks  are  calculatin'  to  have  it  day  after 
to-morrow,"  said  he.  "Well,  if  you  fail  in  your 
calculations,  an'  the  cold  continues,  I  shall  be 
mighty  glad  to  come  in  here.  My  house  is  darned 
cold  this  weather,  and  Abby  Mosely  ain't  particu 
lar  'bout  the  doors  ;  seems  to  me  sometimes  as  if 
I  was  settin'  in  a  hurricane  the  heft  of  the  time, 
211 


I 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

and  as  if  my  idees  were  gettin'  on  a  slant.  Abby 
thinks  she's  goin'  up  Thursday,  and  I  wish  in 
thunder  she  would.  I  wouldn't  have  her  another 
day,  if  she  waVt  a  lone  woman  and  nowheres  to 
go.  She  ain't  no  kind  of  a  cook.  Look  at  here, 
Sophy  Anne — " 

Mrs.  Lennox  sewed  on  with  compressed  lips. 

"  Sophy  Anne,  look  at  here.  You  'ain't  got  no 
mince-pies  on  hand  now,  have  you  ?" 

"No,  I 'ain't." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  much  s'pose  you'd  made  any,    . 
you've  been  so  busy  gettin'  ready  to  fly  lately.r 
Look  at  here,  Sophy  Anne,  don't  you  feel  as  if 
you  could  roll  me  out  a  few  mince-pies  to-morrow, 
hey  ?" 

Mrs.  Lennox  looked  at  him. 

"  I  dun'no'  when  I've  eat  a  decent  mince-pie," 
pursued  Simeon.  "Abby  Mosely  keeps  the  com 
mandments,  but  she  can't  make  pies  that's  fit  to 
eat.  I  'ain't  had  a  mince-pie  I  could  eat  since  my 
last  wife  died.  I  wish  you'd  contrive  an'  roll  me 
out  a  few,  Sophy  Anne.  Your  mince-pies  used 
to  go  ahead  of  Maria's  ;  she  always  said  they  did. 
If  the  world  don't  come  to  an  end  day  after  to 
morrow,  I'd  take  a  sight  of  comfort  with  'em,  and 
I'll  be  darned,  if  it  does  come  to  an  end,  if  I  don't 
think  I'd  have  a  chance  to  eat  one  or  two  of  'em 
before  the  fire  got  round  to  me.  Can't  ye  do  itr 
Sophy  Anne,  nohow  ?" 

"  No,  I  can't." 

212 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

"  Can't  ye  roll  me  out  jnst  half  a  dozen  mince- 
pies  ?" 

"I  will  never  roll  out  a  mince -pie  for  yon, 
Simeon  Lennox,"  said  Sophia  Anne,  with  icy 
fervor. 

"  Ye  never  will  ?" 

"  No,  I  never  will."  Sophia  Anne's  stern  eyes 
in  their  hollow  bine  orbits  met  his. 

Simeon  chuckled  ;  then  he  turned  to  his  broth 
er.     "  Well,  Sol'mon,  s'pose  you're  flappin'  all  / 
ready  to  fly  ?"  he  said. 

Solomon  made  no  reply.  He  frowned  over  the 
great  volume  on  his  knees.  The  deaf-and-dumb 
boy  had  set  his  empty  plate  on  the  hearth  and 
fallen  asleep  again,  with  his  head  tilted  against 
the  jamb.  Melissa  sewed,  her  pale  face  bent 
closely  over  her  work. 

"  Hear  ye  are  goin'  to  fly  from  Penfield's  hill  ?"  / 
said  Simeon. 

Still  Solomon  said  nothing. 

"  Well,  I  s'pose  that's  as  good  a  place  as  any," 
said  Simeon,  "  though  'tain't  a  very  high  hill.    I 
should  'most  think  you'd  want  a  higher  hill  than 
Penfield's.     I  s'pose  you'll  be  kind  of  unhandy 
with  your  wings  at  first,  an'  start  off  something 
like  hens.     But  then  I  s'pose  a  few  feet  more  or 
less  won't  make  no  odds  when  they  get  fairly  to  |    / 
workin'.     I  heard  the  women  was  makin'  flyin'-  j  v 
petticoats.     Them  what  you're  to  work  on,  Sophy 
Anne,  you  and  Melissy  ?" 
213 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

Sophia  Anne  gave  one  look  at  him,  then  she 
took  a  stitch. 

"Abby  Mosely's  to  work  on  one,  I  guess," 
said  Simeon.  "  She's  ben  a-settin'  in  a  heap  of 
white  cloth  a-sewin'  for  three  days.  I  came  in 
once,  an"  she  was  tryin'  of  it  on,  an'  she  slipped 
out  of  it  mighty  sudden.  All  I've  got  to  say 
is  she'll  cut  a  queer  figure  flyin'.  She's  pretty 
hefty.  I  miss  my  guess  if  she  don't  find  it  a 
job  to  strike  out  at  first.  Now  I  should  think 
you  might  take  to  flyin'  pretty  natural,  Sophy 
Anne." 

Mrs.  Lennox's  pale  face  was  flushed  with  anger, 
but  she  sewed  on  steadily. 

"As  for  Melissy,"  said  Simeon,  in  his  chuck 
ling  drawl,  ' '  I  ruther  guess  she  could  fly  without 
much  practice  too.  She's  built  light ;  but  it 
strikes  me  she'd  better  have  a  weddin'-gown  than 
a  flyin'-petticoat.  Young  Penfield  goin'  to  fly 
with  you,  Melissy  ?" 

Solomon  Lennox  closed  the  Bible  with  a  great 
clap.  "  I'll  have  no  more  of  this  !"  he  said,  with 
a  shout  of  long-repressed  fury. 

"  Now,  Solomon,  don't  ye  get  riled  so  near  the 
end  of  the  world,"  drawled  his  brother,  getting 
up  slowly.  "  I'm  a-goin'.  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  the 
means  of  makin'  you  backslide  when  ye're  so  nigh 
the  top  of  Zion's  Hill.  I'm  a-goin'  home.  I  don't 
s'pose  I  shall  get  no  supper  on  account  of  Abby's 
hurryin'  up  on  her  flyin'-petticoat.  Sure  you  ain't 
214 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

goin'  to  make  them  mince -pies  for  me,  Sophy 
Anne  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  be  sure." 

The  brother-in-law  thrust  his  sharp  old  face 
down  close  to  Sophia  Anne's.  "  Sure  ?"  he  re 
peated. 

Sophia  Anne  started  back  and  stared  at  him. 
There  was  something  strange  in  his  manner. 

The  old  man  laughed,  and  straightened  him 
self.  "  Well,  I'm  a-goin',"  said  he.  "  Good-bye. 
Mebbe  I  sha'n't  see  ye  again  before  ye  lly.  Hope 
ye'll  light  easy.  Good-bye." 

After  Simeon  had  closed  the  door,  he  opened 
it  again,  and  thrust  his  sharp  features  through  a 
narrow  aperture.  "  Look  at  here,  Solomon," 
said  he.  "  Mind  ye  leave  the  key  in  the  door 
when  ye  go  out  to  fly  Thursday  night.  I  want 
to  come  right  in."  Then  Simeon  shut  the  door 
again,  but  his  malicious  laugh  could  be  plainly 
heard  in  the  entry. 

He  did  not  go  straight  home  as  he  had  said, 
but  up  the  road  to  Lawyer  Bascombe's  office. 
When  he  returned,  the  meeting  in  his  brother's 
house  was  in  session,  and  the  windows  were  dark 
with  heads  against  the  red  firelight.  Old  Simeon 
stared  up  at  them,  and  laughed  aloud  to  himself 
as  he  went  by.  "  Sophy  Anne  won't  make  me 
no  mince-pies.  She's  sure  on't,"  he  said,  and 
laughed  again. 

The  next  day  all  the  ordinary  routine  of  life 
215 


A   NEW    ENGLAND    PEOPHET 

seemed  at  a  standstill  in  the  village.  The  store 
keeper  had  become  a  convert,  the  store  was  closed, 
and  the  green  inside  shutters  were  fastened.  Now 
and  then  a  village  loafer  lounged  disconsolately 
up,  shook  the  door  on  its  rattling  lock,  stared  at 
the  shuttered  windows,  then  lounged  away,  mut 
tering.  The  summer  resting-place  of  his  kind, 
the  long,  bewhittled  wooden  bench  on  the  store 
platform,  could  not  be  occupied  that  wintry  day. 
The  air  was  clear,  and  the  dry  pastures  were  white 
and  stiff  with  the  hoar-frost ;  the  slants  of  the 
roofs  glistened  with  it  in  the  sun.  The  breaths 
of  the  people  going  to  and  from  Solomon  Len 
nox's  house  were  like  white  smoke.  The  meet 
ing  began  at  dawn.  Childrenwere  dragged  hither 
at  their  parents'  heels,  cold  and  breakfastless. 
Not  a  meal  was  cooked  that  day  in  the  houses  of 
Solomon  Lennox's  followers.  All  the  precious 
hours  were  spent  in  fasting  and  prayer.  Towards 
night  the  excitement  deepened.  There  was  pres 
ent  within  the  village  a  spiritual  convulsion  as 
real  as  any  other  convulsion  of  nature,  and  us 
truly  although  more  subtly  felt.  Even  they  who 
had  scoffed  and  laughed  at  this  new  movement 
from  the  first,  and  were  now  practically  untouched 
by  it,  grew  nervous  and  ill  at  ease  towards  night 
as  from  the  gathering  of  a  storm.  The  air  seemed 
charged  with  electricity  generated  by  the  touch 
of  human  thought  and  faith  with  the  Unknown. 
The  unbelievers  pressed  their  faces  against  the 
216 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

window-panes,  shading  their  eyes  from  the  light 
within  as  the  dusk  deepened,  or  stood  out  in  their 
yards  watching  the  sky,  half  fearful  they  should 
indeed  see  some  sign  or  marvel  therein. 

But  the  night  came  on,  and  the  stars  shone  out 
in  their  order  as  they  had  done  from  the  first,  and 
there  was  no  sign  but  the  old  one  of  eternal  love 
and  beauty  in  the  sky.  The  moon  arose  at  nine 
o'clock,  nearly  at  her  full.  That,  from  some  in 
terpretation  of  symbolical  characters  on  the  deaf- 
and-dumb  boy's  slate,  had  been  fixed  upon  as  the 
hour  of  meeting  upon  Penfield's  hill.  The  sol 
emn  and  dreadful  moment  which  was  to  mark  the 
climax  of  all  creation  was  expected  between  that 
hour  and  dawn. 

At  half-past  eight  white-robed  figures  began  to 
move  along  the  road.  People  peeped  around 
their  curtains  to  see  them  pass ;  now  and  then 
belated  children  ran  shrieking  with  terror  into 
the  houses  at  sight  of  them. 

Beside  the  road,  close  to  the  gate  which  led  to 
the  wide  field  at  the  foot  of  Penfield's  hill,  under 
the  shadow  of  a  clump  of  hemlocks,  Isaac  Pen- 
field  had  been  waiting  since  quarter  past  eight 
o'clock.  When  the  white  company  came  in  sight 
he  drew  farther  back  within  the  shadow,  scan 
ning  the  people  eagerly  as  they  passed. 

Solomon  Lennox  and  Deacon  Scranton  let 
down  the  bars,  and  the  people  passed  through 
silently,  crowding  each  other  whitely  like  a  flock 
217 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

of  sheep.     Sophia  Anne,  the  deaf-and-dumb  boy 
holding  fast  to  her  hand,  was  among  the  first. 

Isaac  had  expected  to  see  Melissa  close  to  her 
mother  ;  but  she  had  become  separated  from  her 
and  came  among  the  last. 

Her  slender  figure  was  hidden  in  her  flowing 
white  robes,  but  there  was  no  mistaking  her 
gentle  faltering  gait  and  the  delicate  bend  of  her 
fair  uncovered  head. 

Isaac  stepped  forward  suddenly,  threw  his  arm 
around  Melissa,  and  drew  her  back  with  him 
within  the  shadow  of  the  hemlocks.  Nobody 
saw  it  but  Abby  Mosely,  Simeon  Lennox's  house 
keeper,  and  she  was  too  panic-stricken  to  heed  it 
intelligently  ;  she  went  panting  on  after  the  others 
in  her  voluminous  white  robe,  and  left  Melissa 
alone  with  Isaac  Penfield. 

Isaac  pressed  Melissa's  head  close  to  his  breast, 
leaned  his  face  down  to  hers,  and  whispered  long 
in  her  ear.  She  listened  trembling  and  unresist 
ing  ;  then  she  broke  away  from  him  weakly,  ' '  I 
can't,  I  can't,"  she  moaned.  But  he  caught  her 
again,  and  whispered  again  with  his  lips  close  to 
her  soft  pale  cheek,  and  frequent  kisses  between 
the  words. 

"Come,  now,  sweetheart,"  he  said  at  length, 
and  attempted  to  draw  her  with  him  into  the 
road  ;  but  she  pulled  herself  away  from  him 
again,  and  stood  warding  him  off  with  her  white- 
draped  arms. 

218 


A   NEW    ENGLAND    PEOPHET 


et 


I   can't,  I   can't,"  she   moaned   again, 
must  go  with  father  and  mother." 

"  I  tell  you  they  are  wrong  ;  can't  you  believe 
me?" 

"  I — must — go  with  them." 

"No  ;  come  with  me,  Melissa." 

Melissa,  still  with  her  arms  raised  against  him, 
looked  away  over  the  meadow,  full  of  moving 
white  figures.  The  moon  shone..,out  over  it,  and 
it  gleamed  like  a  field  of  Paradise  peopled  with 
angels.  Then  she  looked  up  in  her  lover's  face, 
and  suddenly  it  was  to  her  as  if  she  saw  therein 
the  new  earth  of  all  her  dreams. 

Solomon  Lennox  and  his  followers  kept  on  to 
PeiifielcTs  hill,  which  arose  before  them  crowned 
with  silver,  and  Isaac  Penfield  hastened  down 
the  road  to  the  village,  half  carrying  Melissa's 
little  white-clad  figure,  wrapped  against  the  cold 
in  his  own  gray  cloak. 

Early  the  next  morning  a  small  company  of 
pallid  shivering  people  crept  through  the  vil 
lage  to  their  homes.  Many  had  weakened  and 
deserted  long  before  dawn,  chilled  to  their  very 
thoughts  and  fancies  by  their  long  vigil  on  the 
hill-top.  Young  girls  ran  home,  crying  aloud 
like  children,  and  men  half  dragged  hysterical 
wives  rigid  with  chills.  Solomon  Lennox  and  his 
wife  remained  until  the  dawn  light  shone  ;  then 
he  beckoned  to  her  and  the  whimpering  deaf-and- 
dumb  boy,  and  led  the  way  down  the  hill  without 
219 


A   NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

a  word.     He  never  looked  at  the  rest  of  the  com 
pany,  but  they  followed  silently. 

The  Penfield  house  was  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  the  pasture  bars.  When  they  reached 
it,  Isaac  stood  waiting  at  the  gate.  He  went  up 
to  Solomon,  who  was  passing  without  a  look, 
and  touched  his  arm  with  an  impatient  yet  re 
spectful  gesture.  "Yon  and  Mrs.  Lennox  and 
Lonny  had  better  come  in  here,  I  think,"  he 
said. 

Solomon  was  moving  on  with  dull  obstinacy, 
but  Isaac  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm.  "  I — think 
you  have — forgotten,"  he  said.  "  I  am  sorry,  but 
— your  brother  Simeon  has — taken  possession  of 
your  house." 

Solomon  stared  at  him  dully.  He  did  not  seem 
to  comprehend.  Sophia  Anne  looked  as  blue  and 
bloodless  in  her  white  robe  as  if  she  were  dead. 
She  had  scarce  more  control  of  her  trembling 
tongue  than  if  it  were  paralyzed,  but  her  highly 
strung  feminine  nerves  gave  out  vibrations 
still. 

"  Has  Simeon  took  possession  ?"  she  demanded, 
fiercely. 

Isaac  Penfield  nodded.  "  I  think  it  would  be 
pleasanter  for  you  to  come  in  here  now,"  he  said. 
Then  he  hesitated,  and  colored  suddenly.  "  Your 
daughter  is  in  here,"  he  added. 

Sophia  Anne  gave  a  keen  glance  at  him.    Then 
she  turned  in  at  the  gate  with  a  sharp  twitch  at 
220 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

the  arm  of  the  deaf-and-dumb  boy,  who  was  mak 
ing  strange  cries  and  moans,  like  a  distressed  an 
imal.  "  Come,  father,"  she  called,  impatiently  ; 
and  Solomon  also  entered  the  Penfield  gate  with 
a  piteous,  dazed  air. 

In  the  great  south  room  of  the  Penfield  house 
were  Melissa  and  Mrs.  Martha  Joyce,  the  house 
keeper.  Mrs.  Joyce  was  mixing  something  in  a 
steaming  bowl  ;  Melissa  sat  still,  gazing  at  the 
fire.  She  was  dressed  in  a  blue  satin  gown  and 
fine  lace  tucker,  which  had  belonged  to  Isaac 
Penfield's  mother.  Madam  Penfield  had  been 
nearly  Melissa's  size,  and  the  gown  fitted  her 
slender  figure  daintily.  She  sat  with  her  fair  head 
bent,  the  color  coming  and  going  in  her  soft 
cheeks,  as  if  from  her  own  thoughts.  Her  little 
hands  were  folded  in  her  blue  satin  lap,  and  on 
one  finger  gleamed  a  great  pearl,  which  Mad 
am  Penfield  had  used  to  wear. 

When  the  door  opened  and  her  parents  entered, 
she  half  started  up,  with  a  great  blush  ;  then  she 
sank  back,  trembling  and  pale. 

Isaac  Penfield  crossed  over  to  her,  and  laid  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder.  "She  is  my  wife,"  he 
said.  "Wre  were  married  last  night." 

Sophia  Anne  made  a  faint  gesture,  which  might 
have  expressed  anything.  Solomon  staggered  to 
a  chair  without  a  look.  In  truth,  when  they  en 
tered  the  warm  room,  and  the  long  strain  of  re 
sistance  against  cold  and  fatigue  ceased,  exhaus- 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

tion  overcame  them.  Mrs.  Joyce  administered 
hot  porridge  and  cordials,  and  Melissa  knelt  down 
in  her  blue  satin  and  rubbed  her  mother's  be 
numbed  hands. 

Solomon  took  whatever  was  offered  him,  meek 
ly,  like  a  child.  His  face  was  changed  ;  the  look 
which  it  had  worn  during  the  greater  part  of  his 
life,  the  expression  of  himself  within  his  old  worn 
channel,  had  returned. 

He  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  sipping  cordial,  when 
his  brother  Simeon  came  in  ;  he  had  not  even 
noticed  the  brazen  clang  of  the  knocker. 

Simeon  came  tiptoeing  around  in  front  of  his 
brother,  thrust  down  his  face  on  a  level  witli  his, 
and  peered  at  him  with  a  sharp  twinkle  of  black 
eyes.  Then  he  looked  at  Sophia  Anne,  and 
chuckled.  "  Tears  to  me  wings  didn't  work  very 
well/'  said  he. 

Simeon  had  a  roll  of  paper  in  his  hand.  He 
went  to  the  desk,  and  spread  it  out  ostentatiously. 
Then  he  began  to  read  in  a  high,  solemn  voice, 
with  an  undertone  of  merriment  in  it.  "  Know 
all  men  by  these  presents,"  began  Simeon  Len 
nox,  and  read  straight  through  the  deed,  with 
all  its  strange  legal  formalities,  by  which  his 
brother  Solomon  had  conveyed  his  worldly  goods 
to  him. 

Sophia  Anne  writhed  in  her  chair  as  Simeon 
read.  She  was  on  a  rack  of  torture,  and  every 
new  word  was  a  turn  of  the  screw.  Solomon  set 
222 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

his  tumbler  of  cordial  on  the  hearth,  and  rested 
his  head  on  his  hands. 

After  Simeon  had  finished  reading  the  deed, 
he  paused  for  a  moment.  Sophia  Anne  gave  a 
dry  sob. 

Then  Simeon  cleared  his  throat,  and  continued  : 
"  The  foregoing  I  do  hereby  declare  null  and  void, 
and  I  do  hereby  remise,  release,  sell,  and  forever 
quitclaim,  for  myself  and  my  heirs,  by  these 
presents,  the  aforementioned  premises,  with  all 
the  privileges  and  appurtenances  thereunto  be 
longing,  to  the  said  Solomon  Lennon,  his  heirs 
and  assigns  forever,  in  consideration  that  Sophia 
Anne,  the  wife  of  said  Solomon  Lennox,  shall, 
during  the  term  of  her  natural  life,  unless  she  be 
prevented  by  sickness  from  so  doing,  make,  mix, 
season,  and  bake  for  me  witli  her  own  hands, 
with  her  best  skill,  according  to  her  own  con 
science,  seven  mince  pies  during  every  week  of 
the  year,  with  one  extra  for  every  Independence 
and  Thanksgiving  day,  and  that  the  said  Sophia 
Anne,  the  wife  of  the  said  Solomon  Lennox,  shall 
hereunto  set  her  hand  and  seal." 

Simeon  looked  at  Sophia  Anne.  She  stared 
back  at  him,  speechless. 

"Well,  what  ye  goin'  to  do  about  it,  Sophy 
Anne  ?"  said  Simeon. 

Sophia  Anne  still  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were 
a  blank  wall  against  which  her  very  spirit  had 
been  brought  to  a  standstill. 
223 


A    NEW    ENGLAND    PROPHET 

"  Goin'  to  sign  it,  Sophy  Anne  ?" 

Sophia  Anne  got  up.  Her  knees  trembled,  but 
she  motioned  back  Isaac  Penfield's  proffered  arm. 
She  went  to  the  desk,  sat  down,  took  the  quill, 
dipped  it  carefully  in  the  inkstand,  and  shook  it 
lest  it  blot.  Her  lean  arm  crooked  as  stiffly  as  a 
stick,  her  lips  were  a  blue  line,  but  she  wrote  her 
name  with  sharply  rippling  strokes,  and  laid  the 
pen  down. 

"  Sure  ye  won't  make  them  mince  pies,  Sophy 
Anne  ?"  said  Simeon. 

Sophia  Anne  made  no  reply.  She  put  her  el 
bow  on  the  desk,  and  leaned  her  head  on  her 
hand.  Simeon  looked  at  her  a  moment,  then  he 
gave  her  a  rough  pat  on  her  shoulder  and  turned 
and  went  to  the  window,  and  stood  there,  staring 
out. 

Melissa  was  weeping  softly  ;  Isaac  stood  beside 
her,  smoothing  her  hair  tenderly.  The  deaf-and- 
dumb  boy's  fair  head  hung  helplessly  over  his 
shoulder.  He  had  fallen  asleep  with  the  tears 
on  his  cheeks. 

The  morning  sunlight  shone  broadly  into  the 
room  over  them  all,  but  Solomon  Lennox  did  not 
seem  to  heed  that  or  anything  that  was  around 
him,  sitting  sadly  within   himself  :    a  prophet  i 
brooding  over  the  ashes  of  his  own  prophetic  i 
fire. 


THE     LITTLE     MAID    AT     THE 
DOOR 


JOSEPH  BAYLEY  and  his  wife  Ann  came  riding 
down  from  Salem  village.  They  had  started  from 
their  home  in  Newbury  the  day  before,  and  had 
stayed  overnight  with  their  relative,  Sergeant 
Thomas  Putnam,  in  Salem  village  ;  they  were  on 
their  way  to  the  election  in  Boston.  The  road 
wound  along  through  the  woods  from  Salem  to 
Lynn  ;  it  was  some  time  since  they  had  passed  a 
house. 

May  was  nearly  gone  ;  the  pinks  and  the  black 
berry  vines  were  in  flower.  All  the  woods  were 
full  of  an  indefinite  and  composite  fragrance, 
made  up  of  the  breaths  of  myriads  of  green  plants 
and  seen  and  unseen  blossoms,  like  a  very  bou 
quet  of  spring.  The  newly  leaved  trees  cast  shad 
ows  that  were  as  much  a  part  of  the  tender  sur 
prise  of  the  spring  as  the  new  flowers.  They 
flickered  delicately  before  Joseph  Bayley  and  hia 
wife  Ann  on  the  grassy  ridges  of  the  road,  but 
they  did  not  remark  them.  Their  own  fancies 
p  235 


THK  MTTLK  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

cast  gigantic  projections  which  eclipsed  the  sweet 
show  of  the  spring  and  almost  their  own  person 
alities.  That  year  the  leaves  came  out  and  the 
flowers  bloomed  in  vain  for  the  people  in  and 
bout  Salem  village.  There  was  epidemic  a  dis 
ease  of  the  mind  which  deafened  and  blinded  to 
all  save  its  own  pains. 

Ann  Bayley  on  the  pillion  snuggled  closely 
against  her  husband's  back ;  her  fearful  eyes 
peered  at  the  road  around  his  shoulder.  She  was 
a  young  and  handsome  woman ;  she  had  on  her 
best  mantle  of  sad-colored  silk,  and  a  fine  black 
hood  with  a  topknot,  but  she  did  not  think  of  that. 

"  Joseph,  what  is  that  in  the  road  before  us  ?" 
she  whispered,  timorously. 

He  pulled  up  the  horse  with  a  great  jerk. 
'•'  Where  ?"  he  whispered  back. 

"  There  !  there  !  at  the  right ;  just  beyond  that 
laurel  thicket.  Tis  somewhat  black,  an'  it  moves. 
There  !  there  !  Oh,  Joseph  \" 

Joseph  Bayley  sat  stiff  and  straight  in  his  sad 
dle,  like  a  soldier ;  his  face  was  pale  and  stern, 
his  eyes  full  of  horror  and  defiance. 

"  See  you  it  ?"  Ann  whispered  again.  "  There  ! 
now  it  moves.  What  is  it  ?" 

"  I  see  it/'  said  Joseph,  in  a  loud,  bold  voice. 
"An'  whatever  it  be,  I  will  yield  not  to  it ;  an' 
neither  will  you,  goodwife." 

Ann  reached  around  and  caught  at  the  reins. 
"  Let  us  go  back,"  she  moaned,  faintly.  "  Oh, 
226 


THE   LITTLE    MAID   AT   THE   DOOR 

Joseph,  let  ns  not  pass  it.  My  spirit  faints  within 
me.  I  see  its  back  among  the  laurel  blooms,  Tis 
the  black  beast  they  tell  of.  Let  us  turn  back, 
Joseph,  let  us  turn  back  I" 

••Be  still,  woman  !**  returned  her  husband,  jerk 
ing  the  reins  from  her  hand.  "What  think  ye 
'twould  pro  tit  us  to  turn  back  to  Salem  village  ? 
I  trow  if  there  be  one  black  beast  here,  there  is 
a  full  herd  of  them  there.  There  is  naught  left 
but  to  ride  past  it  as  best  we  may.  Si:  fast,  an' 
listen  you  not  to  it,  whatever  it  promise  you." 
Joseph  looked  down  the  road  towards  the  laurel 
bushes,  his  muscles  now  as  tense  as  a  bow.  Ann 
hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  Suddenly  he 
shouted,  with  a  great  voice  like  a  herald  :  "Away 
with  ye.  ye  cursed  beast !  away  with  ye  !  We  are 
not  of  your  kind  ;  we  are  gospel  folk.  We  have 
naught  to  do  with  you  or  your  master.  Away 
with  ye  !" 

The  horse  leaped  forward.  There  was  a  great 
cracking  among  the  laurel  busies  a:  the  right, 
a  glossy  black  back  and  some  white  horns  heaved 
over  them,  then  some  black  nanks  plunged  heav 
ily  out  of  sight. 

••  Oh  '."  shrieked  Ann.  "has  it  gone  ?  Good 
man,  has  it  gone  :" 

"  The  Lord  hath  delivered  us  from  the  snare 
of  the  enemy."  answered  Joseph,  solemnly. 

-  What  looked  it  like.  Joseph,  what  looked  n 
like  ?" 


THE   LITTLE  MAID   AT   THE   DOOR 

/"Like  no  beast  that  was  saved  in  the  ark." 
"  Had  it  fiery  eyes  ?"  asked  Ann,  trembling. 
"  'Tis  well  you  did  not  see  them." 
"Ride  fast!    oh,  ride    fast!"   Ann   pleaded, 
clutching  hard  at  her  husband's  cloak.     "It  may 
follow  on  our  track."     The  horse  went  down  the 
road  at  a  quick  trot.     Ann  kept  peering  back 
and  starting  at  every  sound  in  the  woods.     "  Do 
you   mind  the  tale   Samuel  Endicott  told  last 
night?"   she   said,  shuddering.     "How   on  his 
voyage  to  Barbadoes  he,  sitting  on  the  windlass 
on  a  bright  moonshining  night,  was  shook  violent 
ly,  and  saw  the  appearance  of  that  witch  Goody 
Bradbury,  with  a  white  cap  and  a  white  neck 
cloth  on  her  ?    It  was  a  dreadful  tale." 

"  It  was  naught  to  the  sight  of  Mercy  Lewis 
and  Sergeant  Thomas  Putnam's  daughter  Ann, 
when  they  were  set  upon  and  nigh  choked  to 
death  by  Goody  Proctor.  Know  you  that  within 
a  half-mile  we  must  pass  the  Proctor  house  ?" 

Ann  gave  a  shuddering  sigh.  "  I  would  I  were 
home  again  !"  she  moaned.  "  They  said  'twas  full 
of  evil  things,  and  that  the  black  man  himself 
kept  tavern  there  since  Goodman  Proctor  and 
his  wife  were  in  jail.  Did  you  mind  what  Good- 
wife  Putnam  said  of  the  black  head,  like  a  hog's, 
that  Goodman  Perley  saw  at  the  keeping-room 
window  as  he  passed,  and  the  rumbling  noises, 
and  the  yellow  birds  that  flew  around  the  chim 
ney  and  twittered  in  a  psalm  tune  ?  Oh,  Joseph, 


THE  LITTLE    MAID   AT   THE   DOOR 

there  is  a  yellow  bird  now  in  the  birch-tree — see  ! 
see !" 

They  had  come  into  a  little  space  where  the 
woods  were  thinner.  Joseph  urged  his  horse  for 
ward. 

"  We  will  not  slack  our  pace  for  any  black 
beasts  nor  any  yellow  birds,"  he  cried,  in  a  valiant 
voice. 

There  was  a  passing  gleam  of  little  yellow 
wings  above  the  birch-tree. 

"  He  has  flown  away,"  said  Ann.  "  'Tis  best 
to  front  them  as  you  do,  goodman,  but  I  have  not 
the  courage.  That  looked  like  a  common  yellow- 
bird  ;  his  wings  shone  like  gold.  Think  you  it 
has  gone  forward  to  the  Proctor  house  ?" 

"  It  matters  not,  so  it  but  fly  up  before  us," 
said  Joseph  Bayley. 

He  was  somewhat  older  than  Ann  ;  fair-haired 
and  fair-bearded,  with  blue  eyes  set  so  deeply 
under  heavy  brows  that  they  looked  black.  His 
face  was  at  once  stern  and  nervous,  showing  not 
only  the  spirit  of  warfare  against  his  foes,  but  the 
elements  of  strife  within  himself. 

They  rode  on,  and  the  woods  grew  thicker  ; 
the  horse's  hoofs  made  only  a  faint  liquid  pad  on 
the  mossy  road.  Suddenly  he  stopped  and  whin 
nied.  Ann  clutched  her  husband's  arm ;  they 
sat  motionless,  listening ;  the  horse  whinnied 
again. 

Suddenly  Joseph  started  violently,  and  stared 
229 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

into  the  woods  on  the  left,  and  Ann  also.  A  long 
defile  of  dark  evergreens  stretched  up  the  hill, 
with  mysterious  depths  of  blue-black  shadows  be 
tween  them  ;  the  air  had  an  earthy  dampness. 

Joseph  shook  the  reins  fiercely  over  the  horse's 
back,  and  shouted  to  him  in  a  loud  voice. 

"  Did  you  see  it  ?"  gasped  Ann,  when  they 
had  come  into  a  lighter  place.  "  Was  it  not  a 
black  man  ?" 

"  Fear  not ;  we  have  outridden  him,"  said  her 
husband,  setting  his  thin  intense  face  proudly 
ahead. 

"I  would  we  were  safe  home  in  Newbury," 
Ann  moaned.  "  I  would  we  had  never  set  out. 
Think  you  not  Dr.  Mather  will  ride  back  from 
Boston  with  us  to  keep  the  witches  oft'  ?  I  will 
bide  there  forever,  if  he  will  not.  I  will  never 
:come  this  dreadful  road  again,  else.  What  is 
that  ?  Oh,  what  is  that  ?  'Tis  a  voice  coming 
out  of  the  woods  like  a  great  roar.  Joseph  I  What 
is  that  9  That  was  a  black  cat  run  across  the  road 
into  the  bushes.  'Twas  a  black  cat.  Joseph,  let 
us  turn  back  !  No  ;  the  black  man  is  behind  us, 
and  the  beast.  What  shall  we  do  ?  What  shall 
we  do  ?  Oh,  oh,  I  begin  to  twitch  like  Ann  and 
Mercy  last  night !  My  feet  move,  and  I  cannot 
stop  them  !  Now  there  is  a  pin  thrust  in  my 
arm  !  I  am  pinched  !  There  are  fingers  at  my 
throat !  Joseph  !  Joseph  I" 

"  Go  to  prayer,  sweetheart,"  shouted  Joseph. 
230 


THE   LITTLE   MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

"  Go  to  prayer.  Be  not  afraid.  'Twill  drive 
them  away.  Away  with  ye,  Goody  Bradbury  ! 
Away,  Goody  Proctor !  Go  to  prayer,  go  to 
prayer  !" 

Joseph  bent  low  in  the  saddle  and  lashed  the 
horse,  which  sprang  forward  with  a  mighty 
bound  ;  the  green  branches  rushed  in  their  faces. 
Joseph  prayed  in  a  loud  voice.  Ann  clung  to 
him  convulsively,  panting  for  breath.  Suddenly 
they  came  out  of  the  woods  into  a  cleared  space. 

"  The  Proctor  house  !  the  Proctor  house  !" 
Ann  shrieked.  "  Mercy  Lewis  said  'twas  full  of 
devils.  What  shall  we  do  ?"  She  hid  her  face 
on  her  husband's  shoulder,  sobbing  and  praying. 

The  Proctor  house  stood  at  the  left  of  the  road  ; 
there  were  some  peach-trees  in  front  of  it,  and 
their  blossoms  showed  in  a  pink  spray  against  the 
gray  unpainted  walls.  On  one  side  of  the  house 
was  the  great  barn,  with  its  doors  wide  open  ;  on 
the  other,  a  deep  ploughed  field,  with  the  plough 
sticking  in  a  furrow.  John  Proctor  had  been  ar 
rested  and  thrown  into  jail  for  witchcraft  in 
April,  before  his  spring  planting  was  done. 

Joseph  Bayley  reined  in  his  horse  opposite  the 
Proctor  house.  "Ann,"  he  whispered,  and  his 
whisper  was  full  of  horror. 

(<  What  is  it  ?"  she  returned,  wildly. 

"Ann,  Goodman  Proctor  looks  forth  from  the 
chamber  window,  and  Goody  Proctor  stands  out 
side  by  the  well,  and  they  are  both  in  jail  in  Bos- 
231 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

ton."  Joseph's  whole  frame  shook  in  a  strange 
rigid  fashion,  as  if  his  joints  were  locked.  ' '  Look, 
Ann  !"  he  whispered. 

"I  cannot." 

"  Look  \" 

Ann  turned  her  head.  "  Why,"  she  said,  and 
her  voice  was  quite  natural  and  sweet,  it  had  even 

Mne  of  glad  relief  in  it,  f '  I  see  naught  but  a 
e  maid  in  the  door." 

See  you  not  Goodman  Proctor  in  the  win 
dow?" 

"  Nay,"  said  Ann,  smiling  ;  "I  see  naught  but 
the  little  maid  in  the  door.  She  is  in  a  blue  pet 
ticoat,  and  she  has  a  yellow  head,  but  her  little 
cheeks  are  pale,  I  trow." 

"  See  you  not  Goodwife  Proctor  in  the  yard  by 
the  well  ?"  asked  Joseph. 

"  Nay,  goodman ;  I  see  naught  but  the  little 
maid  in  the  door.  She  has  a  fair  face,  but  now 
she  falls  a-weeping.  Oh,  I  fear  lest  she  be  all 
alone  in  the  house." 

"  I  tell  you,  Goodman  Proctor  and  Goodwife 
Proctor  are  both  there,"  returned  Joseph.  ' '  Think 
you  I  see  not  with  my  own  eyes  ?  Goodman 
Proctor  has  on  a  red  cap,  and  Goodwife  Proctor 
holds  a  spindle."  He  urged  on  the  horse  with  a 
sudden  cry.  "  Now  the  prayers  do  stick  in  my 
throat,"  he  groaned.  "  I  would  we  were  out  of 
this  devil's  nest !" 

"Oh,  Joseph,"  implored  Ann,  "prithee  wait 
232 


THE   LITTLE    MAID   AT   THE   DOOR 

a  minnte  !  The  little  maid  is  calling  '  mother ' 
after  me.  Saw  you  not  how  she  favored  our  little 
Susanna  who  died  ?  Hear  her  !  There  was 
naught  there  but  the  little  maid.  Joseph,  I 
pray  you,  stop." 

"  Nay  ;  I'll  ride  till  the  nag  drops/'  said  Joseph 
Bayley,  with  a  lash.  e<  This  last  be  too  much.  I 
tell  ye  they  are  there,  and  they  are  also  in  jail. 
Tis  hellish  work." 

Ann  said  no  more  for  a  little  space  ;  a  curve  in 
the  road  hid  the  Proctor  house  from  sight.  Sud 
denly  she  raised  a  great  cry.  "Oh  !  oh  !"  she 
screamed,  "'tis  gone  ;  'tis  gone  from  my  foot  \" 

Joseph  stopped.     "  What  is  gone  ?" 

"  My  shoe  ;  but  now  I  missed  it  from  my  foot. 
I  must  alight,  and  go  back  for  it." 

Joseph  started  the  horse  again. 

Ann  caught  at  the  reins.  "  Stop,  goodman," 
she  cried,  imperatively.  "  I  tell  you  I  must  have 
my  shoe." 

"And  I  tell  you  I'll  stop  for  no  shoe  in  this 
place,  were  it  made  of  gold." 

"  Goodman,  you  know  not  what  shoe  'tis.  'Tis 
one  of  my  fine  shoes,  in  which  I  have  never  taken 
steps.  They  have  the  crimson  silk  lacings.  I 
have  even  carried  them  in  my  hand  to  the  meet 
ing-house  on  a  Sabbath,  wearing  my  old  ones,  and 
only  put  them  on  at  the  door.  Think  you  I  will 
lose  that  shoe  ?  Stop  the  nag." 

But  Joseph  kept  on  grimly. 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

"  Think  yon  I  will  go  barefoot  or  with  one  shoe 
into  Boston  ?"  said  Ann.  "  Know  you  that  these 
shoes,  which  were  a  present  from  my  mother, 
cost  bravely  ?  I  trow  you  will  needs  loosen  your 
purse  strings  well  before  we  pass  the  first  shop 
in  Boston.  Well,  go  on,  an'  you  will,  when  'tis 
but  a  matter  of  my  slipping  down  from  the  pil 
lion  and  running  back  a  few  yards." 

Joseph  Bayley  turned  his  horse  about ;  but 
Ann  remonstrated. 

"  Nay/'  said  she ;  "  I  want  not  to  go  thus.  I 
am  tired  of  the  saddle.  I  would  like  to  feel  my 
feet  for  a  space.'* 

Her  husband  looked  around  at  her  with  won 
der  and  suspicion.  Dark  thoughts  came  into  his 
mind. 

She  laughed.  "Nay,"  said  she,  "make  no 
such  face  at  me.  I  go  not  back  to  meet  any 
black  man  nor  sign  any  book.  I  go  for  my  fine 
shoe  with  the  crimson  lacing." 

"  'Tis  but  a  moment  since  you  were  afraid," 
said  Joseph.  "Have  you  no  fear  now  ?"  His 
blue  eyes  looked  sharply  into  hers. 

She  looked  back  at  him  soberly  and  matfcently. 
"  In  truth,  I  feel  no  such  fear  as  I  did,"  she  an 
swered.  "  If  I  mistake  not,  your  bold  front  and 
your  prayers  drove  away  the  evil  ones.  I  will 
say  a  psalm  as  I  go,  and  I  trow  naught  will  harm 
me." 

Ann  slipped  lightly  down  from  the  pillion,  and 
234 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  BOOK 

pulled  off  her  one  remaining  shoe  and  her  stock 
ings  ;  they  were  her  fine  worked  silk  ones,  and 
she  conld  not  walk  in  them  over  the  rough  road. 
Then  she  set  forth  very  slowly,  peering  here  and 
there  in  the  undergrowth  beside  the  road,  until 
she  passed  the  curve  and  the  reach  of  her  hus 
band's  eyes.  Then  she  gathered  up  her  crimson 
taffeta  petticoat  and  ran  like  a  deer,  with  long 
graceful  leaps,  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left, 
straight  back  to  the  Proctor  house. 

In  the  door  of  the  house  stood  a  tiny  girl  with 
a  soft  shock  of  yellow  hair.  She  wore  a  little 
straight  blue  gown,  and  her  baby  feet  were  bare, 
curling  over  the  sunny  door-step.  AVhen  she  saw 
Ann  coming  she  started  as  if  to  rim  ;  then  she 
stood  still,  her  soft  eyes  wary,  her  mouth  quiv 
ering. 

Ann  Bayley  ran  up  quickly,  and  threw  her 
arms  around  her,  kneeling  down  on  the  step. 
"  What  is  your  name,  little  maid  ?"  said  she,  in 
a  loving,  agitated  voice. 

"  Abigail  Proctor,"  replied  the  little  maid, 
shyly,  in  her  sweet  childish  treble.  Then  she 
tried  to  free  herself,  but  Ann  held  her  fast. 

"  Nay,  be  not  afraid,  sweet,"  said  she.  "I 
love  you.  I  once  had  a  little  maid  like  you  for 
my  own.  Tell  me,  dear  heart,  are  you  all  alone 
in  the  house  ?" 

Then  the  child  fell  to  crying  again,  and  clung 
around  Ann's  neck. 

235 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

"  Is  there  anybody  in  the  house,  sweet  ?"  Ann 
whispered,  fondling  her,  and  pressing  the  wet 
baby  cheek  to  her  own. 

"  The  constables  came  and  took  them,"  sobbed 
the  little  maid.  ' '  They  put  my  poppet  down 
the  well,  and  they  pulled  mother  and  Sarah  down 
the  road.  They  took  father  before  that,  and 
Mary  Warren  did  gibe  and  point.  The  consta 
bles  pulled  Benjamin  away  too.  I  want  my 
mother." 

"  Your  mother  shall  come  again,"  said  Ann. 
"Take  comfort,  dear  little  heart,  they  cannot 
have  the  will  to  keep  her  long  away.  There, 
there,  I  tell  you  she  shall  come.  You  watch  in 
the  door,  and  you  will  see  her  come  down  the 
road." 

She  smoothed  back  the  little  maid's  yellow 
hair,  and  wiped  the  tears  from  her  little  face 
with  a  corner  of  her  beautiful  embroidered  neck 
erchief.  Then  she  saw  that  the  face  was  all 
grimy  with  tears  and  dust,  and  she  went  over  to 
the  well,  which  was  near  the  door,  and  drew  a 
bucket  of  water  swiftly  with  her  strong  young 
arms  ;  then  she  wet  the  corner  of  the  neckerchief 
and  scrubbed  the  little  maid's  face,  bidding  her 
shut  her  eyes.  Then  she  kissed  her  over  and 
over. 

"Now  you   are   sweet  and   clean,"  said  she. 
"Dear  little  heart,  I  have  some  sugar  cakes  in 
my  bag  for  you,  and  then  I  must  be  gone." 
236 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

The  little  maid  looked  at  her  eagerly,  her 
cheeks  were  waxen,  and  the  blue  veins  showed 
in  her  full  childish  forehead.  Ann  pulled  some 
little  cakes  out  of  a  red  velvet  satchel  she  wore 
at  her  waist,  and  Abigail  reached  out  for  one  with 
a  hungry  cry.  The  tears  sprang  to  Ann's  eyes  ; 
she  put  the  rest  of  the  cakes  in  a  little  pile  on 
the  door-stone,  and  watched  the  child  eat.  Then 
she  gathered  her  up  in  her  arms. 

"Good-bye,  sweetheart,"  she  said,  kissing  the 
soft  trembling  mouth,  the  sweet  hollow  under  the 
chin,  and  the  clinging  hands.  "  Before  long  I 
shall  come  this  way  again,  and  do  you  stand  in 
the  door  when  I  go  past." 

She  put  her  down  and  hastened  away,  but  little 
Abigail  ran  after  her.  Ann  stopped  and  knelt 
and  fondled  her  again. 

"  Go  back,  deary,"  she  pleaded  ;  "  go  back,  and 
eat  the  sugar  cakes." 

But  this  beautiful  kind  vision  in  the  crimson 
taffeta,  with  the  rosy  cheeks  and  sweet  black  eyes 
looking  out  from  the  French  hood,  with  the 
gleam  of  gold  and  delicate  embroidery  between 
the  silken  folds  of  her  mantilla,  with  the  ways 
like  her  mother's,  was  more  to  little  deserted 
Abigail  Proctor  than  the  sugar  cakes,  although 
she  was  sorely  hungry  for  them.  She  stood  aloof 
with  pitiful  determined  eyes  until  Ann's  back 
was  turned,  then,  as  she  followed,  Ann  looked 
around  and  saw  her  and  caught  her  up  again, 
237 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE   DOOE 

"  My  dear  heart,  my  dear  heart/'  she  said,  and 
she  was  half  sobbing,  "now  must  you  go  back, 
else  I  fear  harm  will  come  to  you.  My  goodman 
is  waiting  for  me  yonder,  and  I  know  not  what 
he  will  do  or  say.  Nay  ;  you  must  go  back.  I 
would  I  could  keep  you,  my  little  Abigail,  but 
you  must  go  back."  Ann  Bayley  put  the  little 
maid  down  and  gave  her  a  gentle  push.  ff  Go 
back,"  she  said,  smiling,  with  her  eyes  full  of 
tears  ;  "go  back,  and  eat  the  sugar  cakes." 

Then  she  sped  on  swiftly  ;  as  she  neared  the 
curve  in  the  road  she  thrust  a  hand  in  her  pock 
et,  and  drew  forth  a  dainty  shoe  with  dangling 
lacings  of  crimson  silk.  She  glanced  around 
with  a  smile  and  a  backward  wave  of  her  hand  ; 
the  glowing  crimson  of  her  petticoat  showed  for 
a  minute  through  the  green  mist  of  the  under 
growth  ;  then  she  disappeared. 

The  little  maid  Abigail  stood  still  in  the  road, 
gazing  after  her,  her  soft  pink  mouth  open,  her 
hands  clutching  at  her  blue  petticoat,  as  if  she 
would   thus   hold   herself  back  from  following. 
She  heard  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  feet  beyond  the 
curve  ;  then  it  died  away.     She  turned  about  and 
went  back  to  the  house,  with  the  tears  rolling 
over  her  cheeks ;  but  she  did  not  sob  aloud,  as 
she  would  have  done  had  her  mother  been  near 
to  hear.     A  pitiful  conviction  of  the  hopelessness  \     / 
of  all  the  appeals  of  grief  was  stealing  over  her    !  v 
childish  mind.     She  had  been  alone  in  the  house  ' 
238 


THE  LITTLE   MAID   AT  THE  DOOR 

three  nights  and  two  days,  ever  since  her  sister 
Sarah  and  her  brother  Benjamin  had  been  ar 
rested  for  witchcraft  and  carried  to  jail.  Long 
before  that  her  parents,  John  and  Elizabeth 
Proctor,,  had  disappeared  down  the  Boston  road 
in  charge  of  the  constables.  None  of  the  family 
was  spared  save  this  little  Abigail,  who  was 
deemed  too  young  and  insignificant  to  have  deal 
ings  with  Satan,  and  was  therefore  not  thrown 
into  prison,  but  was  left  alone  in  the  desolate 
Proctor  house  in  the  midst  of  woods  said  to  be 
full  of  evil  spirits  and  witches,  to  die  of  fright  or 
starvation  as  she  might.  There  was  but  little 
mercy  shown  the  families  of  ~Elio&e  'accused  of 
witchcraft. 

"  Let  some  of  Goody  Proctor's  familiars  min 
ister  unto  the  brat,"  one  of  the  constables  had 
said,  with  a  stern  laugh,  when  Abigail  had  fol 
lowed  wailing  after  her  brother  and  sister  on  the 
day  of  their  arrest. 

"  Yea,"  said  another  ;  "  she  can  send  her  yel 
low-bird  or  her  black  hog  to  keep  her  company. 
I  wot  her  tears  will  be  soon  dried." 

Then  the  stoutly  tramping  horses  had  borne 
out  of  sight  and  hearing  the  mocking  faces  of  the 
constables ;  Sarah's  fair  agonized  one  turned 
backward  towards  her  little  deserted  sister,  and 
Benjamin  raised  a  brave  youthful  clamor  of  in 
dignation. 

"  Let  us  loose  !"  Abigail  heard  him  shout ;  "let 
239 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

us  loose,  I  tell  ye  !  Ye  are  fools,  rather  than  we 
are  witches  ;  ye  are  fools  and  murderers !  Let 
us  loose,  I  tell  ye  \" 

Abigail  waited  long,  thinking  her  brother's 
words  would  prevail ;  but  neither  he  nor  Sarah 
returned,  and  the  sounds  all  died  away,  and  she 
went  back  to  the  house  sobbing.  The  damp 
spring  night  was  settling  down  in  a  palpable 
mist,  and  the  woods  seemed  full  of  voices.  The 
little  maid  had  heard  enough  of  the  terrible  talk 
of  the  day  to  fill  her  innocent  head  with  vague 
superstitious  horror.  She  threw  her  apron  over 
her  head  and  fled  blindly  through  the  woods,  and 
now  and  then  she  fell  down  and  bruised  herself, 
and  rose  up  lamenting  sorely,  with  nobody  to 
hear  her. 

As  soon  as  she  was  in  the  house  she  shut  the 
doors,  and  barred  them  with  the  great  bars  that 
had  been  made  as  protection  against  Indians,  and 
now  might  wax  useless  against  worse  than  sav 
ages,  according  to  the  belief  of  the  coloify. 

All  night  long  the  little  maid  shrieked  and 
sobbed,  and  called  on  her  father  and  her  mother 
and  her  sister  and  her  brother.  Men  faring  in 
the  road  betwixt  Boston  and  Salem  village  heard 
her  with  horror,  and  fled  past  with  psalm  and 
prayer,  their  blood  cold  in  their  veins.  They 
related  the  next  day  to  the  raging,  terror-stricken 
people  how  at  midnight  the  accursed  Proctor 
house  was  full  of  flitting  infernal  lights,  and 
240 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

howling  with  devilish  spirits,  and  added  a  death- 
dealing  tale  of  some  godly  woman  of  the  village 
who  outrode  their  horses  on  a  broomstick  and 
disappeared  in  the  Proctor  house. 

The  next  day  the  little  maid  unbarred  the  door, 
and  stood  there  watching  up  and  down  the  road 
for  her  mother  or  some  other  to  come.  But  they 
came  not,  although  she  watched  all  day.  That 
night  she  did  not  sob  and  call  out ;  she  had  be 
come  afraid  of  her  own  voice,  and  discovered 
that  it  had  no  effect  to  bring  her  kt*Tp.  Then, 
too,  early  in  the  night,  she  heard  noises  about 
the  house  which  frightened  her,  and  made  her 
think  that  perchance  the  dreadful  black  beast  of 
which  she  had  heard  them  discourse  was  abroad. 

The  next  morning  she  found  that  the  two 
horses  and  the  cow  and  calf  were  gone  from  the 
barn  ;  also  that  there  was  left  scarce  anything  for 
her  to  eat  in  the  house.  There  had  been  some 
loaves  of  bread,  some  boiled  meat,  and  some  cake?  ; 
now  they  were  all  gone,  and  also  all  the  meal 
from  the  chest,  and  the  potatoes  and  pork  from 
the  cellar.  But  for  that  last  she  did  not  care, 
since  she  was  not  old  enough  to  make  a  fire  and 
cook.  She  had  left  for  food  only  a  little  cold 
porridge  in  a  blue  bowl,  and  that  she  ate  up  at 
once  and  had  no  more,  and  a  little  buttermilk  in  a 
crock, which,  she  being  not  over-fond  of  it,  served 
her  longer.  But  that  was  all  she  had  had  for  a 
day  and  a  night,  until  Goodwife  Ann  Bayley  gave 
Q  241 


THE  LITTLE   MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

her  the  sngar  cakes.  These  she  ate  up  at  once 
on  her  return  to  the  house.  Then  again  she 
stood  watching  in  the  door,  but  nothing  passed 
along  the  road  save  a  partridge  or  a  squirrel.  It 
was  accounted  a  bold  thing  for  any  solitary  trav 
eller  to  come  this  way,  save  a  witch,  and  she,  it 
was  supposed,  might  find  many  comrades  in  the 
woods  beside  the  road  and  in  the  Proctor  house, 
which  was  held  to  be  a  sort  of  devils'  tavern.  But 
now  no  witch  came,  nor  any  of  her  uncanny 
friends,  unless  indeed  the  squirrel  and  the  par 
tridge  were  familiar  demons  in  disguise.  Noth 
ing  was  too  harmless  and  simple  to  escape  that 
^imputation  of  the  devil's  mask. 

Abigail  took  her  little  pewter  porringer  from 
the  cupboard,  and  got  herself  a  drink  of  water 
from  the  bucketful  that  Goodwife  Bayley  had 
drawn ;  then  she  stood  on  a  stone,  and  peered 
into  the  well,  leaning  over  the  curb.  Her  pop 
pet  was  in  there,  her  dear  rag  doll  that  Sarah  had 
made  for  her,  and  dressed  in  a  beautiful  silver 
brocade  made  from  a  piece  of  a  wedding-gown 
that  was  brought  from  England.  One  of  the 
constables  had  caught  sight  of  little  Abigail  Proc 
tor's  poppet,  and  being  straightway  filled  with 
suspicion  that  it  was  an  image  whereby  Goody 
Proctor  afflicted  her  victims  by  proxy,  had  seized 
it  and  thrown  it  into  the  well.  The  other  con 
stables  had  chidden  him  for  such  rashness,  say 
ing  it  should  have  been  carried  to  Boston  and 
242 


THE  LITTLE   MAID   AT   THE   DOOR 

produced  as  evidence  at  the  trial ;  and  little  Abi 
gail  had  shrieked  out  in  a  panic  for  her  poppet. 

She  could  see  nothing  of  it  now,  and  she  went 
back  to  her  watching-place  in  the  door. 

In  the  afternoon  she  felt  sorely  hungry  again, 
and  searched  through  the  house  for  food ;  then 
she  went  out  in  the  sunny  fields  behind  the  house, 
and  found  some  honeysuckles  on  the  rocks,  and 
sucked  the  honey  greedily  from  their  horns.  On 
her  return  to  the  house  she  found  a  corn-cob, 
which  she  snatched  up  and  folded  in  her  apron, 
and  began  tending.  She  sat  down  in  the  door 
way  in  her  little  chair,  which  she  dragged  out  of 
the  keeping-room,  and  hugged  the  poor  poppet 
close,  and  crooned  over  it. 

"  Be  not  afraid,"  said  she.  "  I'll  not  let  the 
black  beast  harm  you ;  I  promise  you  I  will  not." 

That  night  she  formed  a  new  plan  for  her  sol 
ace  and  protection  in  the  lonely  darkness.  All 
the  garments  of  her  lost  parents  and  sister  and 
brother  that  she  could  find  she  gathered  together, 
and  formed  in  a  circle  on  the  keeping-room  floor  ; 
then  she  crept  inside  with  her  corn-cob  poppet, 
and  lay  there  hugging  it  all  night.  The  next  day 
she  watched  again  in  the  door  ;  but  now  she  was 
weak  and  faint,  and  her  little  legs  trembled  so 
under  her  that  she  could  not  stand  to  watch,  but 
sat  in  her  small  straight  -  backed  chair,  holding 
her  poppet  and  peering  forth  wistfully. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  she  made  shift  to 
243 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

creep  out  into  the  fields  again,  and  lying  flat  on 
the  sun  -  heated  rocks,  she  sucked  some  more 
honey  drops  from  the  honeysuckles.  She  found, 
too,  on  the  edge  of  the  woods,  some  young  win- 
tergreen  leaves,  and  she  even  pulled  some  blue 
violets  and  ate  them.  But  the  delicate,  sweet, 
and  aromatic  fare  in  the  spring  larder  of  nature 
was  poor  nourishment  for  a  human  baby. 

Poor  little  Abigail  Proctor  could  scarcely  creep 
home,  still  clinging  fast  to  her  poppet ;  scarcely 
lift  herself  into  her  chair  in  the  door ;  scarcely 
crawl  inside  her  fairy-ring  of  her  loved  ones'  be 
longings  at  night.  She  rolled  herself  tightly  in 
an  old  cloak  of  her  father's,  and  it  was  a  sweet 
and  harmless  outcome  of  the  dreadful  supersti 
tion  of  the  day,  grafted  on  an  innocent  childish 
brain,  that  it  seemed  to  partake  of  the  bodily 
presence  of  her  father,  and  protect  her. 

All  night  long,  as  she  lay  there,  her  mother 
cooked  good  meat  and  broth  and  sweet  cakes,  and 
she  ate  her  fill  of  them  ;  but  in  the  morning  she 
was  too  weak  to  turn  her  little  body  over.  She 
could  not  get  to  her  watching-place  in  the  door, 
but  that  made  no  difference  to  her,  for  she  did 
not  fairly  know  that  she  was  not  there.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  sat  in  her  little  chair  looking  up 
the  road  and  down  the  road ;  she  saw  the  green 
branches  weaving  together,  and  hiding  the  sky 
to  the  northward  and  the  southward  ;  she  saw 
the  flushes  of  white  and  rose  in  the  flowering 
244 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

undergrowth ;  she  saw  the  people  coming  and 
going.  There  were  her  father  and  mother  now 
coming  with  store  of  food  and  presents  for  her, 
now  following  the  constables  out  of  sight.  There 
was  that  fine  pageant  passing,  as  she  had  seen  it 
pass  once  before,  of  the  two  magistrates,  their 
worshipful  masters  John  Hathorne  and  Jonathan 
Corwin,  with  the  marshal,  constables,  and  aids, 
splendid  and  awe-inspiring  in  all  their  trappings 
of  office,  to  examine  the  accused  in  the  Salem 
meeting-house.  There  were  the  ministers  Parris 
and  Noyes  coming,  with  severe  malignant  faces, 
to  question  her  mother  as  to  whether  she  had  af 
flicted  Mary  Warren,  their  former  maid-servant, 
who  was  now  bewitched.  There  went  Benjamin, 
clamoring  out  boldly  at  his  captors.  There  came 
Sarah  with  the  poppet,  which  she  had  drawn  out 
of  the  well,  shaking  the  water  from  its  silver  bro 
cade. 

All  this  the  little  maid  Abigail  Proctor  saw 
through  her  half-delirious  fancy  as  she  lay  weak 
ly  on  the  keeping-room  floor,  but  she  saw  not  the 
reality  of  her  sister  Sarah  coming  about  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

Sarah  Proctor,  tall  and  slender,  in  her  limp 
bedraggled  dress,  with  her  fair  severe  face  set  in 
a  circle  of  red  shawl,  which  she  had  pinned  un 
der  her  chin,  came  resolutely  down  the  road  from 
Boston,  driving  a  black  cow  before  her  with  a 
great  green  branch.  She  was  nearly  fainting 
245 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

with  weariness,  but  she  set  her  dusty  shoes  down 
swiftly  among  the  road  weeds,  and  her  face  was 
as  unyielding  as  an  Indian's. 

When  she  came  in  sight  of  the  Proctor  house 
she  stopped  a  second.  ( '  Abigail  I"  she  called ; 
"Abigail!" 

There  was  no  answer,  and  she  went  on  more 
swiftly  than  before.  When  she  reached  the 
house  she  called  again,  "  Abigail !"  but  did  not 
wait  except  while  she  tied  the  black  cow,  by  a 
rope  which  was  around  her  neck,  to  a  peach-tree. 
Then  she  ran  in,  and  found  the  little  maid,  her 
sister  Abigail,  on  the  floor  in  the  keeping-room. 

She  got  down  on  her  knees  beside  her,  and 
Abigail  smiled  up  in  her  face  waveringly.  She 
still  thought  herself  in  the  door,  and  that  she  had 
just  seen  her  sister  come  down  the  road. 

' '  Abigail,  what  have  they  done  to  you  ?"  asked 
Sarah,  in  a  sharp  voice  ;  and  the  little  maid  only 
smiled. 

"  Abigail,  Abigail,  what  is  it  ?"  Sarah  took 
hold  of  the  child's  shoulders  and  shook  her ;  but 
she  got  no  word  back,  only  the  smile  ceased,  and 
the  eyelids  drooped  faintly. 

"Are  you  hungry,  Abigail  ?" 

The  little  maid  shook  her  head  softly. 

"  It  cannot  be  that,"  said  Sarah,  as  if  half  to 
herself;  "there  was  enough  in  the  house;  but 
what  is  it  ?    Abigail,  look  at  me  ;  how  long  is  it 
since  you  have  eaten  ?    Abigail !" 
246 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOE 

"  Yesterday/'  whispered  the  little  maid,  dream- 

iiy- 

"  What  did  yon  eat  then  ?" 

"Some  posies  and  leaves  out  in  the  field." 

"  What  became  of  all  the  bread  that  was  baked, 
and  the  cakes,  and  the  meat  ?" 

"I— have  forgot." 

"  No,  you  have  not.     Tell  me,  Abigail." 

"The  black  beast  came  in  the  night  and  did 
eat  it  all  np,  and  the  cow,  and  calf,  and  the 
horses,  too." 

"  The  black  beast  !" 

"  I  heard  him  in  the  night,  and  in  the  morning 
'twas — gone." 

Sarah  sprang  up.  "  Robbers  and  murderers  !" 
she  cried,  in  a  fierce  voice  ;  but  the  little  maid  on 
the  floor  did  not  start ;  she  shut  her  eyes  again, 
and  looked  up  and  down  the  road. 

Sarah  got  a  bucket  quickly,  and  went  out  in 
the  yard  to  the  cow.  Down  on  her  knees  in  the 
grass  she  went  and  milked  ;  then  she  carried  in 
the  bucket,  strained  the  milk  with  trembling 
haste,  and  poured  some  into  Abigail's  little  pew 
ter  porringer.  "  She  was  wont  to  love  it  warm," 
she  whispered,  with  white  lips. 

She  bent  close  over  the  little  maid,  and  raised 
her  on  one  arm,  while  she  put  the  porringer  to 
her  mouth.  "  Drink,  Abigail,"  she  said,  with 
tender  command.  "  'Tis  warm — the  way  you 
love  it." 

247 


THE   LITTLE   MAID   AT   THE   DOOR 

The  little  maid  tried  to  sip,  but  shut  her  mouth, 
and  turned  her  head  with  weak  loathing,  and 
Sarah  could  not  compel  her.  She  laid  her  back, 
and  got  a  spoon  and  fed  her  a  little,  by  dint  of 
much  pleading  to  make  her  open  her  mouth  and 
swallow. 

Afterwards  she  undressed  her,  and  £ut  her  to 
bed  in  the  south-front  room,  but  the  child  was  so 
uneasy  without  the  ring  of  garments  which  she 
had  arranged,  that  Sarah  was  forced  to  put  them 
around  her  on  the  bed ;  then  she  fell  asleep  di 
rectly,  and  stood  in  her  dream  watching  in  the 
door. 

Sarah  herself  stood  in  the  door,  looking  up  and 
down  the  road.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  gal 
loping  horse  in  the  distance  ;  it  came  nearer  and 
nearer.  She  went  down  to  the  road  and  stood 
waiting.  The  horse  was  reined  in  close  to  her, 
and  the  young  man  who  rode  him  sprang  off  the 
saddle. 

"It  is  you,  Sarah ;  you  are  safe  home,"  he 
cried,  eagerly,  and  would  have  put  his  arm  about 
her  ;  but  she  stood  aloof  sternly. 

"  For  what  else  did  you  take  me — my  appari 
tion  ?"  she  said,  in  a  hard  voice. 

"  Sweetheart  !" 

"  Know  you  that  I  have  but  just  come  from 

the  jail  in  Boston,  where  I  have  lain  fast  chained 

for  witchcraft  ?    See  you  my  fine  apparel  with 

the  prison  air  in  it  ?    Know  you  that  they  called 

248 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

me  a  witch,  and  said  that  I  did  afflict  Mary  War 
ren  and  the  rest  ?  I  marvel  not  that  you  kept 
your  distance,  David  Carr  ;  I  might  perchance 
have  hurt  you,  and  they  might  have  accused  you, 
since  you  were  in  fellowship  with  a  witch.  I 
marvel  not  at  that.  I  would  have  no  harm  come 
to  you,  though  far  greater  than  this  came  to  me, 
but  wherefore  did  you  let  my  little  sister  Abigail 
starve  ?  That  can  I  not  suffer,  coming  from  you, 
David." 

The  young  man  took  her  in  his  arms  with  a  de 
cided  motion  ;  and  indeed  she  did  not  repulse 
him,  but  began  to  weep. 

"Sarah,"  said  he,  earnestly,  "I  was  in  Ips 
wich.  I  knew  naught  of  you  and  Benjamin  be 
ing  cried  out  upon  until  within  this  hour,  when 
I  returned  home,  and  my  mother  told  me.  I 
knew  not  you  were  acquitted,  and  was  on  my 
way  to  Boston  to  you  when  I  saw  you  at  the 
gate.  And  as  for  Abigail,  I  knew  naught  at  all ; 
and  so  'twas  with  my  mother,  for  she  but  now 
wept  when  she  said  the  poor  little  maid  had  been 
taken  with  the  rest.  But  you  mean  not  that, 
sweetheart ;  she  has  not  been  let  to  starve  ?" 

"  They  stole  away  the  food  in  the  night,"  said 
Sarah,  "and  the  horses  and  the  cow  and  calf.  I 
found  the  cow  straying  in  the  woods  but  now,  on 
my  way  home,  and  drove  her  in  and  milked  her  ; 
but  Abigail  would  take  scarce  a  spoonful  of  the 
warm  milk.  She  has  had  but  little  to  eat  for 
249 


THE  LITTLE   MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

three  days,  and  has  been  distracted  with  fear,  be 
ing  left  alone.  She  has  ever  been  but  a  delicate 
child,  and  now  I  fear  she  has  a  fever  on  her,  and 
will  die,  with  her  mother  away." 

"I  will  go  for  my  mother,  sweetheart,"  said 
David  Carr,  eagerly. 

"  Bring  her  under  cover  of  night,  then,"  said 
Sarah;  "else  she  may  be  suspected  if  she  come 
to  this  witch  tavern,  as  they  call  it.  Oh,  David, 
think  you  she  will  come  ?  I  am  in  a  sore  strait." 

"I  will  bring  her  without  fail,  sweet,  and  a 
flask  of  wine  also,  and  needments  for  the  little 
maid,"  cried  David.  "  Only  do  you  keep  up  good 
heart.  Perchance,  sweet,  the  child  will  amend 
soon,  and  the  others  be  soon  acquit.  Nay,  weep 
not,  poor  lass  !  poor  lass  !  Thou  hast  me,  what 
ever  else  fail  thee,  poor  solace  though  that  be, 
and  I  will  fetch  thee  my  mother  right  speedily. 
She  has  ever  set  great  store  by  the  little  maid, 
and  knows  much  about  ailments ;  and  I  doubt 
not  they  will  be  soon  acquit." 

"  They  say  my  mother  will,"  answered  Sarah, 
tearfully  ;  "  and  Benjamin  is  acquit  now,  but  had 
best  keep  for  a  season  out  of  Salem  village.  But 
my  father  will  not  be  acquit ;  he  has  spoken  his 
mind  too  boldly  before  them  all." 

"Nay,  sweetheart,"  said  David  Carr,  mount-      / 
ing,  "  'twill  all  have  passed  soon  ;  'tis  but  a  mad-  / 
ness.     Go  in  to  the  little  maid,  and  be  of  good 
comfort." 

250 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  BOOR 

Sarah  went  sobbing  into  the  house,  but  her  face 
was  quite  calm  when  she  stood  over  little  Abigail. 
The  child  was  still  asleep,  and  she  could  arouse 
her  only  for  a  moment  to  take  a  few  spoonfuls  of 
milk ;  then  she  turned  her  head  on  her  pillow 
with  weary  obstinacy,  and  shut  her  eyes  again. 
She  still  held  the  poor  corn-cob  poppet  fast. 

Sarah  washed  herself,  braided  her  hair,  and 
changed  her  prison  dress  for  a  clean  blue  linen 
one  ;  then  she  sat  beside  Abigail,  and  waited  for 
David  Carr  and  his  mother,  who  came  within  an 
hour.  Goodwife  Carr  was  renowned  through  Sa 
lem  village  for  her  knowledge  of  metUcinal  herbs 
and  her  nursing.  She  had  a  gentle  sobriety  and 
decision  of  manner  which  placed  her  firmly  in  her 
neighbors'  confidences,  they  seeing  how  she  abode 
firmly  in  her  own,  and  arguing  from  that.  Then 
she  had  too  the  good  fortune  to  have  made  no 
enemies,  consequently  her  ability  had  not  in 
curred  for  her  the  suspicion  of  being  a  witch. 

Goodwife  Carr  brought  a  goodly  store  of  heal 
ing  herbs,  of  bread  and  cakes  and  meat,  and  she 
brewed  drinks,  and  bent  her  face,  pale  and  so 
berly  faithful,  in  her  close  white  cap,  untiringly 
over  Abigail  Proctor.  But  the  little  maid  never 
arose  again.  A  fever,  engendered  by  starvation 
and  fright  and  grief,  had  seized  upon  her,  and 
she  lay  in  the  bed  with  her  little  corn-cob  baby  a 
few  days  longer,  and  then  died. 

They  made  a  straight  white  gown  for  her,  and 
251 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

dressed  her  in  it,  after  washing  her  and  smooth 
ing  her  yellow  hair  ;  and  she  lay,  looking  longer 
and  older  than  in  life,  all  set  about  with  flowers 
—  pinks  and  lilacs  and  roses  —  from  Goodwife 
Carr's  garden,  until  she  was  buried.  And  they 
had  the  Ipswich  minister  come  for  the  funeral, 
for  David  Carr  cried  out  in  a  fury  that  Minister 
Parris,  who  had  prosecuted  this  witchcraft  busi 
ness,  was  her  murderer,  and  blood  would  flow 
from  her  little  body  if  he  stood  beside  it,  and 
that  it  was  the  same  with  Minister  Noyes  ;  and 
Sarah  Proctor's  pale  face  had  flushed  up  fiercely 
in  assent. 

The  morning  after  the  little  maid  Abigail  Proc 
tor  was  buried,  Joseph  Bayley  and  his  wife  Ann 
came  riding  down  the  road  from  Boston,  and 
they  were  in  brave  company,  and  needed  to  have 
but  little  fear  of  witches  ;  for  the  great  minister 
Cotton  Mather  rode  with  them,  his  Excellency 
the  Governor  of  the  colony,  two  worshipful  mag 
istrates,  and  two  other  ministers  —  all  on  their 
way  to  a  witch  trial  in  Salem. 

And  as  they  neared  the  Proctor  house  there 
was  much  discourse  concerning  it  and  the  in 
mates  thereof,  many  strange  and  dreadful  ac 
counts,  and  much  godly  denunciation.  And  as 
they  reached  the  curve  in  the  road  they  came 
suddenly  in  sight  of  a  young  man  and  a  tall  fair 
maid  standing  together  at  the  side  by  some  white- 
flowering  bushes.  And  Sarah  Proctor,  even  with 
252 


THE   LITTLE  MAID   AT  THE   DOOR 

her  little  sister  Abigail  dead  and  her  parents  in 
danger  of  death,  was  smiling  for  a  second's  space 
in  David  Carr's  face,  for  the  love  and  hope  in 
tragedy  that  make  God  possible,  and  the  selfish 
ness  of  love  that  makes  life  possible,  were  upon 
her  in  spite  of  herself. 

But  when  she  saw  the  cavalcade  approaching, 
saw  the  gleam  of  rich  raiment,  and  heard  the 
tramp  and  jingling,  the  smile  faded  straightway 
from  her  face,  and  she  stood  behind  David  in  the 
white  alder  bushes.  And  David  stood  before 
her,  and  gazed  with  a  stern  and  defiant  scowl  at 
the  gentry  as  they  passed  by.  And  the  great 
Cotton  Mather  gazed  back  at  that  beautiful  white 
face  rising  like  another  flower  out  of  the  bushes, 
and  he  speculated  with  himself  if  it  were  the  face 
of  a  witch. 

But  Goodwife  Ann  Bayley  thought  only  on 
the  little  maid  at  the  door.  And  when  they 
came  to  the  Proctor  house  she  leaned  eagerly 
from  the  pillion,  and  she  smiled  and  kissed  her 
hand. 

"  Why  do  you  thus,  Ann  ?"  her  husband  asked, 
looking  abojit  at  her. 

"  See  you  not  the  little  maid  in  the  door  ?"  she 
whispered  low,  for  fear  of  the  goodly  company. 
"  I  trow  she  looks  better  than  she  did.  The  roses 
are  in  her  cheeks,  and  they  have  combed  her  yel 
low  hair,  and  put  a  clean  white  gown  on  her. 
She  holds  a  little  doll,  too." 
353 


THE  LITTLE  MAID  AT  THE  DOOR 

"  I  see  nobody,"  said  Joseph  Bayley,  wonder- 
ingly. 

"Nay,  but  she  stands  there.  I  never  saw 
aught  shine  like  her  hair  and  her  white  gown  ; 
the  sunlight  lies  full  in  the  door.  See  !  seej-  she 
is  smiling  !  I  trow  all  her  griefs  be  welk6ver." 

The  cavalcade  passed  the  Proctor  house,  but 
Goodwife  Ann  Bayley's  sweet  face  was  turned 
backward  until  it  was  out  of  sight,  towards  the 
little  maid  in  the  door. 


LYDIA    HERSEY,    OF    EAST 
BKIDGEWATER 


LYDIA  HERREY  sat  out  on  the  porch  carding 
flax.  She  had  taken  her  work  out  there  that  she 
might  not  litter  the  house.  It  was  Saturday  af 
ternoon,  and  she  had  set  every  room  in  fine  order 
for  the  Sabbath. 

Three  tall  Lombardy  poplar-trees  stood  in  a 
row  on  the  road  line,  and  their  long  shadows, 
like  the  shadows  of  giant  men,  fell  athwart  the 
gray  unpaiuted  house  and  the  broad  grassy  yard. 
At  the  south  of  the  house  was  a  flower  bed  of 
pinks  and  honeysuckles  and  thyme,  and  also  a 
vegetable  garden.  Beyond  that  were  three  bee 
hives  in  a  row,  with  little  black  clouds  of  bees 
around  them.  Lydia  carded  assiduously,  and 
never  looked  up.  Her  long  black  lashes  lay 
against  her  pink  cheeks,  her  full  lips  were  half- 
smiling,  as  if  she  were  saying  some  pleasant  thing 
to  herself.  Lydia  wore  her  black  hair  in  a  braided 
knot  at  the  back  of  her  head ;  in  front  she  combed 
it  smoothly  down  over  her  ears,  then  looped  it 
255 


LYDIA    HERSEY 

tip  behind  them  in  two  clusters  of  soft  curls. 
Her  flowered  chintz  gown  was  cut  low  in  the 
neck,  and  she  wore  a  string  of  gold  beads  around 
her  long  white  throat. 

Lydia  sat  very  erect  as  she  carded  ;  her  shoul 
ders  never  wavered  with  the  clapping  motion  of 
her  hands  ;  she  even  sat  well  forward  in  her  chair, 
and  did  not  come  in  contact  with  its  straight 
back. 

Lydia  Hersey  was  noted  for  the  majesty  of 
her  carriage  as  well  as  her  beauty,  and  was  talk 
ed  of  as  far  as  Boston.  Young  men  had  been 
known  to  come  from  other  villages  and  walk  past 
her  house  on  the  chance  of  seeing  her  at  a  win 
dow,  although  they  dared  not  address  her,  nor 
do  more  than  halt  and  stand  for  a  second  with 
their  hats  raised  like  school-boys  before  the  par 
son  or  the  squire,  and  that  might  have  been  ac 
counted  poor  reward  for  a  long  journey.  But 
there  were  for  these  New  -  Englanders  no  great 
pictures  by  old  masters  and  no  famous  statues, 
and  Lydia  Hersey's  beautiful  living  face,  set  like 
a  jewel  for  a  moment  in  a  window  of  the  gray 
old  Hersey  house,  served  them  instead.  The 
young  Abington  men,  the  North  Bridgewater 
men,  and  the  Canton  men  would  go  home  with 
their  love  of  beauty  all  aflame,  and  never  forget 
Lydia's  face  in  the  window  ;  indeed,  it  would 
turn  towards  them  like  a  portrait,  whichever  way 
they  moved,  through  their  whole  lives.  Years 
256 


OF    EAST    BRIDGEWATER 

afterwards,  when  these  admirers  were  old  men 
and  heard  some  young  beauty  praised,  they  would 
look  scornful  and  say,  "  You  ought  to  have  seen 
Lydia  Hersey,  of  East  Bridge  water." 

A  bumblebee  flew  with  a  loud  buzz- past  Lydia's 
head,  and  she  started  a  little.  He  flew  straight 
into  the  open  window  of  the  keeping-room. 
"  That's  a  sign  of  company,"  she  thought,  and 
she  thought  also  complacently  how  nicely  the 
house  was  set  in  order,  and  she  did  not  care  who 
came. 

The  doors  were  all  open  as  well  as  the  windows. 
She  heard  the  bee  buzzing  and  striking  against 
the  ceiling  of  the  keeping-room.  Presently  she 
heard  another  sound  that  made  her  drop  her 
cards  in  her  lap  and  listen  intently.  It  came 
from  down  the  street,  and  sounded  like  an  irreg 
ular  chorus  of  horns,  a  medley  of  harsh,  hollow 
screeches.  Lydia  frowned.  The  sounds  grew 
louder  ;  there  were  also  great  shouts  of  laughter 
and  clamorous  voices.  Soon  a  company  of  young 
men  came  in  sight  ;  there  were  a  dozen  of  them, 
and  they  had  great  conch  shells  at  their  mouths, 
which  they  blew  between  their  laughter  and 
merry  calls. 

Lydia  stood  up.  She  laid  the  cards  down  on 
the  chair,  folded  the  linen  cloth  which  she  had 
spread  on  the  porch  floor  carefully  over  the  fluffy 
heap  of  carded  flax,  and  brushed  all  the  shreds 
that  she  could  from  her  gown.  Then  she  walked, 
«  257 


LYDIA    HERSEY 

carrying  her  beautiful  head  high,  down  to  the 
road.  There  was  a  sudden  hush  when  the  young 
men  saw  her.  They  took  their  conch  shells  from 
their  lips,  and  saluted  her  respectfully.  One 
young  man,  who  came  foremost  of  the  troop,  col 
ored  high.  One  of  his  comrades  nudged  him, 
and  he  thrust  his  elbow  back  angrily  in  response. 
Lydia  took  no  notice  of  the  other  young  men,  she 
walked  straight  up  to  this  one.  He  stopped,  and 
all  the  others  halted  at  his  back. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Freelove  ?"  said  she. 

"  Not  far,"  he  returned,  evasively. 

' (  Where  ?"  she  demanded. 

The  young  man  turned  towards  his  compan 
ions.  "  Move  on,  lads,"  he  said,  in  an  imperioufe 
voice,  which  he  tried  to  make  good-natured, "  I'll 
be  with  you  in  a  moment." 

His  handsome  face  was  burning.  The  young 
men  trooped  on  ;  there  was  a  subdued  chuckle. 
Freelove  Keith  looked  Lydia  full  in  the  face,  and 
his  blue  eyes  were  as  haughty  as  her  black  ones. 

"  We're  going  down  to  see  Abraham  White  and 
Deborah,"  said  he. 

Lydia  stared  back  at  him  scornfully.  "  You 
are  going  down  there  with  those  loafers  to  blow 
those  conch  shells  under  the  windows  ?"  said  she. 

"  Squire  Perkins's  son  is  one  of  'em,"  returned 
Freelove,  defiantly. 

"  The  more  shame  to  him  !"  said  Lydia.    "  And 
the  more  shame  to  you,  Freelove  Keith  I" 
258 


OF    EAST    BRIDGEWATER 

It  seemed  as  if  her  bright  scornf nl  eyes,  full  on 
Freelove's  face,  could  see  all  the  weaknesses  that 
he  hid  from  himself  behind  his  own  conscious 
ness,  but  he  did  not  flinch. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  call  shame,"  he  said. 
"  'Tis  what  the  young  fellows  in  East  Bridgewater 
have  always  done  when  they  have  not  been  asked 
to  a  wedding/' 

"Asked  to  a  wedding,"  repeated  Lydia,  con 
temptuously.  "A  pretty  wedding!  Deborah 
Belcher  marrying  Abraham  White,  when  he's 
twice  as  old  as  she  is,  and  his  wife  not  dead  six 
months.  No  wonder  she  asked  nobody  to  the 
wedding,  marrying  old  Abraham  White  for  his 
silver  teaspoons  and  tankard,  and  his  wife's  silk 
gowns  and  satin  pelisse  !" 

"  You  don't  know  that  she  married  him  for 
any  such  thing,"  protested  Freelove,  stoutly,  al 
though  he  had  started  on  this  very  expedition 
with  a  gay  contempt  for  Deborah  White.  She  was 
a  very  pretty  girl,  and  once,  before  he  had  dared 
address  Lydia  Hersey,  people  had  coupled  his 
name  with  hers.  He  had  gone  home  with  her 
from  singing-school,  and  kissed  her  once  at  a 
husking. 

"  Stand  up  for  a  girl  like  that  if  you  want  to," 
said  Lydia.  She  had  always  had  a  lurking  jeal 
ousy  of  Deborah  Belcher.  Deborah's  hair  was 
very  fair,  and  she  had  a  delicate  evanescent  bloom 
like  a  wild  rose.  Lydia  had  often  wondered  if 
259 


LYDIA    HERSEY 

Deborah  were  not  prettier  than  she  herself,  and 
if  men  did  not  love  fair  hair  better  than  black. 

Freelove  Keith  did  not  continue  the  dispute  ; 
he  looked  uneasily  after  his  comrades,  who  were 
nearly  out  of  sight,  even  at  their  slow  lingering 
pace.  Now  and  then  the  note  of  a  conch  shell 
was  heard.  "  I  must  go,"  said  he.  <c  Good-day, 
Lydia." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  really  going  with 
that  noisy  crew  to  blow  conch  shells  under  Abra 
ham  White's  windows,  Freelove  Keith  ?" 

"Yes,  I  am  going,  Lydia  Hersey,"  returned 
the  young  man,  hotly  ;  "  and  if  you  thought  I'd 
be  ordered  back  by  you  before  them  all,  like  a 
whipped  puppy,  you  were  mightily  mistaken." 

Lydia  stared  at  him,  she  was  so  full  of  proud 
amazement  that  she  would  say  nothing  ;  this 
Freelove  Keith  had  often  fretted  beneath  her 
rule,  but  never  before  openly  resisted  it. 

"  Go  back  to  your  flax-carding,  Lydia,"  said 
Freelove,  in  a  softer  tone.  "  See,  the  flax  is 
blowing  all  over  the  yard.  I  shall  be  up  to  see 
you  after  supper." 

Then  Lydia  found  her  tongue.  ' ( You  haven't 
been  asked  to  come  that  I  know  of,"  said  she. 
"  I  don't  know  as  I  care  to  keep  company  with 
young  men  that  go  blowing  horns  and  shouting 
through  the  street,  and  disturbing  decent  people." 

"  Then  you  needn't,"  retorted  Freelove. 

He  werit  quickly  down  the  road  after  his  com- 
260 


OF    EAST    BRIDGEWATER 

panions.  He  was  dressed  like  a  farmer,  in  slouch 
ing  homespun,  but  there  was  a  certain  jaunty 
grace  about  him,  and  a  free  swing  in  his  gait, 
which  did  not  accord  with  his  appearance.  He 
had  followed  the  sea  for  a  living,  going  as  mate 
on  a  merchantman,  and  had  been  home  only  for 
a  year  and  a  half,  since  his  father's  death,  man 
aging  the  farm. 

Lydia  went  back  to  the  house.  She  stepped  as 
if  she  bore  a  crown  on  her  head  instead  of  a  tor 
toise-shell  comb,  and  had  a  train  to  her  cotton 
gown.  The  wind  had  indeed  stirred  the  linen 
cloth,  and  bits  of  flax  were  floating  about  the 
yard,  but  she  ignored  that.  She  would  not  so 
far  unbend  her  dignity  as  to  gather  it  up,  even 
with  nobody  but  herself  for  witness.  She  folded 
the  linen  cloth  firmly  over  the  remaining  flax, 
and  placed  her  foot  in  its  buckled  shoe  on  it  when 
she  sat  down.  She  fell  to  work  with  the  cards 
again.  The  wild  clamor  of  horns,  which  she  had 
heard  break  forth  when  Freelove  joined  his  com 
rades,  died  away  in  the  distance. 

Lydia  sat  there  steadily  carding  flax,  as  if  im 
bued  by  nature  with  the  single  instinct  of  indus 
try,  like  a  bee  out  in  the  garden.  Her  lips  were 
tight  shut,  and  no  longer  smiling  ;  her  heart  was 
anxious,  but  she  still  made  her  store  of  linen  as 
unquestioningly  as  the  bee  its  honey. 

In  about  an  hour  the  troop  of  young  men  with 
the  conch  shells  returned.  Lydia  heard  them  at 
261 


LYDIA   HERSEY 

a  distance,  and  long  before  they  reached  the 
house  she  sat  with  stiff er  majesty,  keeping  her 
eyes  so  closely  upon  her  work  that  the  flax  be 
came  a  silvery  blur.  However,  she  need  not  have 
taken  the  trouble,  for  Freelove  Keith  swung  past 
with  as  scornful  a  lift  of  his  head  as  she,  and 
never  once  glanced  her  way.  And,  indeed,  the 
young  men  all  passed  very  decorously  and  quiet 
ly,  and  only  a  few  dared  raise  their  eyes  towards 
the  queenly  figure  on  the  porch,  and  then  only 
for  a  second.  One  of  them  was  Abel  Perkins, 
Squire  Perkins's  son.  He  was  home  from  college 
on  a  vacation,  and  was  quite  looked  up  to  by  the 
village  youth,  as  he  was  the  only  collegian 
among  them.  Abel  Perkins  was  slight  and 
pale,  and  walked  with  a  nervous  strut ;  but  he 
wore  broadcloth  and  a  fine  flowered  waistcoat, 
and  carried  a  gold  watch.  He  even  gave  a  hesi 
tating  glance  back  at  Lydia  on  the  porch,  turn 
ing  his  little  face  over  his  shoulder ;  but  she  did 
not  see  it.  She  did  not  look  up  from  her  work 
until  long  after  the  company  had  passed. 

A  half-hour  later  the  stage  went  by,  with  the 
four  horses  at  a  gallop.  A  fair  face  overtopped 
by  white  plumes  looked  out  of  the  surging  win 
dow.  Lydia  turned  her  head  hastily,  and  the 
red  in  her  cheeks  deepened.  It  was  the  bride, 
Deborah  White,  going  with  her  new  husband  to 
spend  the  honeymoon  with  his  relations  in  Ab- 
ington.  There  was  a  nice  little  hair  trunk 
262 


OF    EAST    BRIDGEWATER 

strapped  on  behind  the  stage.  Lydia  eyed  it  con 
temptuously  when  Deborah  could  no  longer  see 
her.  She  thought,  "  Maybe  his  first  wife's  satin 
pelisse  is  in  there." 

A  man  emerged  from  the  cloud  of  dust  in  the 
wake  of  the  stage.  He  was  old,  and  wore  his 
white  hair  in  a  queue.  He  had  on  a  green  double 
cloak,  although  the  day  was  warm,  and  walked 
with  a  stick,  to  whose  height  he  accommodated 
himself  at  every  step  with  a  downward  motion  of 
his  shoulders.  He  did  not  seem  to  need  its  sup 
port. 

When  he  approached  the  house,  Lydia  stood  up 
and  courtesied  low. 

"  Good-day,  Lydia/'  said  he,  in  a  solemn  voice. 

"  Good-day,  sir,"  she  returned,  with  stately 
deference  ;  and  she  ushered  the  minister,  Elihu 
Eaton,  into  the  fore  room,  and  placed  the  rock 
ing-chair  with  the  feather  cushion  for  him. 

The  fore  room  was  close  and  cool,  for  the 
windows  had  been  shut  all  day  to  keep  out  the 
flies.  There  was  a  smell  of  mint  and  lavender. 
The  great  testered  bedstead,  with  its  chintz  val 
ance  and  curtains,  stood  in  one  corner.  There 
was  a  high  chest  of  drawers  and  a  splendid  carved 
oak  linen  chest,  which  Lydia's  grandmother  had 
brought  over  from  England.  On  one  side  of  the 
fireplace  was  a  great  cupboard  with  panelled 
doors,  and  that  was  filled  with  gallipots.  Lydia's 
father  had  been  a  doctor. 
263 


LYDIA    HEKSEY 

Lydia  sat  beside  the  window,  opposite  the  min 
ister.  There  was  a  restrained  defiance  in  the  lift 
of  her  chin.  Now  and  then  she  picked  a  bit  of 
the  flax  from  her  gown. 

She  knew  well  why  the  minister  had  come. 
Aunt  Nabby  Keith  had  warned  her.  It  was  ten 
months  since  her  banns  with  Freelove  had  been 
published,  and  she  held  herself  aloof,  and  would 
not  marry  him  out  of  sheer  wilfulness  and  co 
quetry,  the  neighbors  said.  Freelove's  aunt 
Nabby  had  come  to  see  her  only  the  day  before, 
and  talked  seriously  with  her. 

"  You  ain't  livin'  up  to  your  professions,"  the 
old  woman  had  said,  "and  I'm  going  to  speak 
plain.  If  you  let  this  year  go  by  and  don't  marry 
Freelove  according  to  your  banns,  you'll  have  a 
good  deal  to  answer  for." 

"  Well,  I'll  ask  nobody  else  to  answer  for  me," 
Lydia  returned. 

"  The  parson  says  he's  coming  to  reason  with 
you,  Lydia  Hersey." 

"  Let  him  come,"  said  Lydia ;  and  her  head 
tossed  up  like  a  rose  in  a  wind. 

And  now  the  parson  had  come.  It  was  some 
little  space  before  he  opened  on  the  subject  in 
hand.  In  truth,  he  stood  somewhat  in  awe,  al 
though  he  did  not  know  it,  of  this  beautiful  high- 
spirited  young  woman.  There  had  been  always 
a'Nlrisk  feminine  rule  in  his  own  house.  Even 
now  he  sweltered  under  the  weight  of  the  green 
264 


OF   EAST    BRIDGEWATER 

double  cloak  which  his  wife  Sarah  had  hoisted 
upon  his  slender  shoulders  because  she  thought 
he  had  taken  cold.  The  waistcoat,  which  she 
had  made  to  suit  her  own  ideas  and  not  his 
requirements,  bound  his  back ;  his  neckcloth, 
which  she  had  wound  with  ardor,  half  choked 
him  and  fretted  his  chin. 

When  at  length  he  reasoned  with  Lydia  Her- 
sey  on  the  matter  of  her  non-fulfilment  of  the 
marriage  banns,  and  the  report  that  she  was  about 
to  let  the  lawful  year  go  by  and  jilt  Freelove 
Keith,  it  was  with  circumspect  solemnity.  Lyd- 
ia's  cheeks  flamed  redder  and  redder,  but  her 
black  eyes  never  left  his  face. 

"  Did  you  meet  Freelove  Keith  with  that  noisy 
crew,  who  ought  to  have  been  at  home  at  work 
in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  shouting  and 
blowing  conch  shells  under  Mr.  Abraham  White's 
windows  ?"  she  demanded. 

The  minister  admitted  that  he  had,  and  had 
remonstrated  with  them. 

"  It  would  make  a  better  text  for  a  discourse 
than  some  others  that  meddlesome  folks  set," 
said  Lydia,  for  she  had  no  fear  of  any  one  before 
another,  not  even  the  minister  or  the  squire.  She 
stood  up.  The  minister  Elihu  Eaton's  sober 
peaked  face  rising  out  of  his  great  capes,  which 
shrugged  to  his  ears,  looked  up  at  her.  "  Either," 
said  she,  in  a  masterful  way,  and  yet  with  a  re 
membering  sweetness,  for  the  minister  looked 
265 


LYDIA    HERSEY 

suddenly  very  old  to  her — "  either  Freelove  Keith 
has  got  to  do  as  I  say  or  I  have  got  to  do  as  he 
says  before  we  are  married,  if  the  banns  have  been 
cried  a  thousand  years." 

Then  she  went  out  into  the  keeping-room,  and 
presently  returned  with  a  tray,  on  which  were  set 
out  a  decanter  of  West  India  Rum,  a  little  sil 
ver  bowl  of  loaf-sugar,  a  tumbler,  and  a  plate  of 
pound-cake. 

When  the  minister  had  partaken  of  these  re 
freshments,  he  offered  a  prayer  and  took  his  leave. 
Lydia  courtesied  when  he  went  out  the  door,  but 
her  lips  were  tightly  shut  again,  for  Elihu  Eaton, 
in  his  appeal  to  the  Lord,  had  spoken  with  more 
fire  concerning  her  affairs  than  he  had  dared  use 
towards  her.  "  O  Lord,  make  this,  Thy  hand 
maiden,  to  keep  to  the  vows  which  she  has  spoken, 
and  let  not  a  froward  mind  lead  her  aside  into 
strange  paths/'  the  minister  had  said,  and  more, 
and  Lydia  could  not  expostulate. 

She  went  into  the  keeping-room  and  got  sup 
per  ready.  Lydia  Hersey  had  lived  alone  ever 
since  her  father's  death.  All  the  more  reason, 
people  thought,  why  she  should  fulfil  her  mar 
riage  contract  with  Freelove  Keith.  There  was 
she,  living  all  alone  in  a  large  house,  with  a  com 
fortable  income,  and  there  was  Freelove,  who 
was  no  longer  so  necessary  at  home  since  his 
sister  had  married  and  taken  her  husband  there 
to  live,  and  who  could  easily  manage  his  farm  and 
266 


OF    EAST    BRIDGEWATEE 

live  in  the  Hersey  house.  There  was  Freelove, 
whom  everybody  liked,  yet  felt  a  certain  anxiety 
about,  because  he  had  been  to  sea,  and  might 
have  seen  much  evil  in  foreign  ports,  going  too 
often  to  the  tavern,  people  said,  and  neglecting 
his  farm  to  go  on  junketings  with  idle  young 
men,  to  Abington  or  Braintree,  and  once  even 
over  to  Boston,  and  to  be  away  all  night.  It 
looked  no  better,  people  said,  because  Squire 
Perkins's  son  went  with  him,  and  he  was  college- 
learned.  It  was  generally  conceded  that  Abel 
was  not  as  reliable,  and  would  not  make  as  smart 
a  man,  as  the  old  squire. 

Lydia  Hersey  saw  Abel  Perkins  again  that 
night.  After  supper  she  strolled  down  the  road 
a  little  way.  She  was  mindful  that  Freelove 
had  said  he  was  coming,  and  she  wondered  if  her 
rebuff  would*  quite  drive  him  away.  Before  she 
started  she  stood  hesitating  a  moment  in  the  door 
way.  The  evening  was  cool,  and  she  had  put  a 
yellow  blanket  over  her  head  and  bare  shoulders. 

She  thought,  angrily,  that  she  would  not  stay 
at  home  and  watch  for  Freelove  Keith,  when  he 
might  not  come  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  did 
not  want  to  go  away  and  never  know  if  he  had 
called. 

Finally  she  pulled  some  sprigs  of  mint  from 
the  bank  under  the  keeping-room  windows,  and 
she  shut  the  house  door,  and  stuck  them  care 
fully  under  the  sill.  Then  she  went  on  down 
267 


LYDIA    HERSEY 

the  road,  and  soon  she  met  Abel  Perkins.  He 
stood  about,  and  took  off  his  hat  in  a  way  he  had 
learned  in  college,  and  Lydia  courtesied  gravely. 
Abel  was  considerably  younger  than  she,  and  she 
had  always  had  a  certain  disdain  for  him,  in  spite 
of  his  being  the  squire's  son.  Still  it  was  quite 
evident  that  he  humbly  admired  her,  and  some 
deference  was  due  him  for  that. 

So  when  he  asked  humbly  if  he  might  walk 
with  her  a  way,  she  said  yes,  and  they  went  on 
together.  Alder -trees,  faintly  sweet  in  a  pale 
mist  of  bloom,  stood  beside  the  road ;  there  were 
distant  peals  of  laughter,  tinklings  of  cow  bells, 
and  a  hubbub  of  nestward  birds.  Lydia  stepped 
proudly  along  beside  the  little  anxiously  smiling 
squire's  son  ;  her  beautiful  face  looked  out  of  her 
yellow  blanket  as  if  it  were  a  frame  of  gold. 

Abel  Perkins  kept  glancing  up  at  her  and 
blushing.  "  If  you  had  told  me  that  you  didn't 
want  me  to  go  to  Abraham  White's,  I  wouldn't 
have  gone,  Lydia,"  he  said,  after  a  while. 

"  I  don't  approve  of  any  such  goings  on,"  Lyd 
ia  returned,  severely. 

"I  don't  know  as  they  are  very  becoming," 
said  Abel  Perkins. 

They  sauntered  on  slowly.  The  sunset  light 
lay  in  red-gold  patches  on  the  dusty  road,  some 
elm-trees  ahead  swayed  in  a  mystical,  rosy,  smoke- 
like  incense.  Presently  at  the  right  of  the  road 
showed  the  red  walls  of  Aunt  Nabby  Keith's 
268 


OF    EAST    BRIDGEWATER 

house  out  of  a  thicket  of  purple-topped  lilac- 
bushes.  Freelove  suddenly  appeared  in  the  road. 
When  he  saw  Lydia  he  started,  then  went  on  with 
a  jauntier  swing.  He  scarcely  nodded  as  he  went 
by.  Lydia  held  her  head  like  a  statue. 

"  Is  he  huffy  ?"  whispered  Abel. 

"  I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care,"  replied  Lyd 
ia,  coldly.  But  in  a  second  she  faced  about. 
"I  must  go  home,"  said  she.  "It  is  getting 
damp. " 

Abel  went  obediently  at  her  side.  Freelove 
was  still  visible  in  the  road  ahead.  Lydia  talked 
and  laughed  very  loud,  but  he  did  not  turn  his 
head,  although  he  must  have  heard.  When  they 
reached  the  Hersey  house,  Lydia  turned  prompt 
ly  into  the  yard.  "  Good-night,  Abel,"  she  called, 
loudly.  And  Abel  Perkins  responded  with  rue 
ful  sweetness,  for  he  had  thought  to  be  asked  in, 
and  went  on  down  the  road  in  Freelove's  tracks. 
Lydia  watched  him  out  of  sight.  She  knew  he 
would  meet  Freelove  at  the  village  store,  if  he 
did  not  overtake  him.  She  did  not  go  into  the 
house  and  disturb  the  mint  on  the  door-sill.  She 
waited  a  few  minutes,  then  she  also  went  on  a 
little  way  to  the  next  house,  where  lived  a  young 
woman  mate  of  hers.  She  went  in  and  stayed  un 
til  nearly  nine  o'clock,  and  the  two  girls  talked 
over  Deborah  Belcher's  wedding,  but  not  a  word 
did  Lydia  say  about  her  quarrel  with  Freelove. 

When  she  went  home,  she  got  down  on  her 
269 


LYDIA    HERSEY 

knees  in  the  porch,  and  examined  the  mint  care 
fully.  It  was  bright  moonlight ;  not  a  sprig  had 
been  disturbed.  Lydia  opened  the  door  and 
walked  in,  trampling  the  mint  ruthlessly. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  she  went  to 
meeting  dressed  in  her  best  gown,  with  roses 
sprinkled  over  a  blue  ground,  and  her  Leghorn 
bonnet  trimmed  with  a  rose-colored  ribbon,  and 
sat  fanning  herself  calmly  with  a  painted  fan 
when  Freelove  entered,  but  he  never  looked  at 
her. 

The  minister  preached  from  Psalm  Ixxv.  5, 
"  Lift  not  up  your  horn  on  high  ;  speak  not  with 
a  stiff  neck,"  and  there  was  much  nudging  in  the 
congregation,  and  uneasiness  among  the  young 
men  who  had  saluted  Abraham  White  and  his 
bride.  Freelove  sat  straight  and  stiff,  but  his 
face  was  red.  Lydia  smiled  behind  her  fan. 

The  next  morning  Sarah  Porter,  the  girl  whom 
she  had  visited  Saturday  evening,  carne  in.  She 
had  heard  that  Lydia  had  really  jilted  her  lover. 
She  and  her  mother  had  watched,  and  knew  that 
he  had  not  come  courting  the  night  before. 

"I  hear  you  and  Freelove  have  fallen  out," 
said  she.  Her  lips  were  smiling  archly,  but  her 
eyes  were  hard  and  curious. 

"There's  plenty  to  hear,  if  folks  keep  their 
ears  pricked  up,"  replied  Lydia,  and  she  would 
say  no  more. 

She  smiled  scornfully  when  presently  she 
270 


OF    EAST    BRIDGEWATER 

watched  Sarah  Porter's  squat  figure  go  out  of  the 
yard.  "  She  didn't  find  out  much,"  she  muttered. 
"  She'd  give  all  her  old  shoes  to  get  Freelove  her 
self,  but  he  wouldn't  look  at  her." 

That  forenoon  Lydia  took  her  flax-carding  out 
on  the  porch  again.  Soon,  as  she  sat  there,  she 
saw  Abel  Perkins  coming.  He  hesitated  at  the 
gate.  He  carried  a  great  bunch  of  white  lilacs. 
Purple  lilacs  were  plenty  in  East  Bridgewater, 
but  white  ones  grew  nowhere  except  in  the  squire's 
yard. 

"  Ain't  you  coming  in,  Abel  ?"  called  Lydia, 
and  she  smiled  her  sweet  imperious  smile  at  him. 

Abel  came  up  the  path,  extending  the  great 
bunch  of  lilacs  like  a  propitiatory  offering  to  a 
deity. 

"  I  thought  maybe  you'd  like  a  bunch  of  these 
white  lilacs,  Lydia,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  you,  Abel ;  they're  real  handsome, 
and  I'll  put  them  in  a  pitcher  when  I  go  in,"  re 
plied  Lydia,  graciously. 

This  morning  she  wore  a  green  and  white  gown, 
which  made  her  face  still  more  like  a  rose.  Abel 
stood  leaning  against  a  post  of  the  porch,  looking 
at  her,  then  looking  quickly  away. 

"  Have  you  got  any  errands  or  anything  yon 
want  done,  Lydia  ?"  he  stammered. 

Lydia  looked  at  him;  a  sudden  wicked  light 
came  into  her  eyes.  There  he  stood,  in  his  fine 
waistcoat  $nd  broadcloth,  with  his  handsome 


LYDIA    HERSEY 

knee-buckles  and  gold  chain.  His  hands  were 
long  and  slim  and  white,  mnch  whiter  than  hers. 

"Why,  yes,  Abel,"  said  she;  "if  yon  really 
want  something  to  do,  the  pease  out  in  my  gar 
den  need  sticking." 

Abel  Perkins  stared  aghast  a  minute  ;  then  he 
started  eagerly. 

"  You'll  have  to  go  up  in  the  pasture  and  cut 
some  brush,"  said  Lydia. 

The  truth  was  that  Freelove  Keith  had  taken 
it  upon  himself  to  tend  Lydia's  garden,  which 
was  but  a  small  one,  and  she  thought  with  spite 
ful  delight  how,  when  he  came  again,  if  he  came 
at  all,  he  would  find  some  of  the  work  done, 
and  wonder.  But  it  did  not  fall  out  as  she  had 
planned,  for  presently  she  heard  loud  voices 
out  in  the  garden,  and  peering  around  the  cor 
ner  of  the  porch,  she  saw  Freelove  and  Abel,  each 
with  a  bundle  of  brush. 

Lydia  gathered  up  her  work  hastily,  and  fled 
into  the  house.  She  went  up  to  the  south  cham 
ber,  and  peeped  around  the  curtain.  Both  of  her 
lovers  were  sticking  the  pease,  Abel  awkwardly, 
with  trembling  haste,  and  Freelove  with  a  sturdy 
vehemence  that  might  have  suited  Cadmus  sow 
ing  the  dragon's  teeth.  Just  then  there  was  a 
sullen  quiet,  but  presently  arose  another  alterca 
tion.  Lydia  spied  a  long  rent  in  the  skirt  of 
Abel's  fine  coat.  Soon  Abel  started  towards  the 
house,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  floor  of  the  south 
273 


OF    EAST    BKIDGEWATER 

chamber  and  laughed.  She  heard  a  faint  voice 
below  calling  her,  but  she  did  not  reply,  and  Abel 
dared  not  search  for  her  in  the  house. 

Lydia  peered  out  again,  and  saw  Freelove  at 
work  alone  in  the  garden,  but  he  never  once 
glanced  up  at  the  house.  She  saw  Sarah  Porter's 
face,  and  her  mother's  over  her  shoulder,  at  a 
window  of  their  house  across  the  yard,  and  she 
watched  jealously  lest  Freelove  should  glance 
that  way  ;  but  he  did  not.  When  the  pease  were 
finished,  he  went  out  of  the  yard,  looking  neither 
to  the  right  nor  left.  Lydia  went  down-stairs 
cautiously,  to  be  sure  Abel  Perkins  was  gone. 

However,  when  he  came  again,  as  he  did  soon, 
she  greeted  him  kindly,  and  smiled  sweetly  by 
way  of  indirect  condolence  when  he  told  how 
Freelove  Keith  had  driven  him  from  the  garden. 
Lydia  spied  the  rent,  which  his  mother  had  neat 
ly  mended,  in  his  broadcloth  coat. 

"Why,  Abel,  you  have  torn  your  fine  coat," 
said  she. 

Abel  blushed.  "I  tore  it  getting  the  sticks  for 
the  pease.  But  'tis  of  no  account,"  he  said  ;  "  and 
I'm  willing  to  tear  it  again  if  there  is  anything 
else  you  want  done,  Lydia." 

"  Maybe  your  mother  won't  be  quite  so  willing 
to  mend  it  again,"  said  Lydia. 

But  presently  she  brought  out  the  churn,  and 
set  Abel  Perkins,  in  his  fine  clothes,  churning 
cream  out  on  the  porch.  Sarah  Porter  called 


LYDIA    HERSEY 

her  mother  out  into  their  front  yard  to  see,  and 
Freelove  Keith  went  by  ;  he  went  often  to  see  his 
Aunt  Nabby. 

Abel  churned  until  the  butter  came,  and  it  took 
full  long,  and  his  fine  waistcoat  was  spattered 
with  cream  ;  and  then  she  sent  him  home  like  a 
little  boy.  Lydia  found  many  another  domestic 
task  for  Abel  Perkins,  and  all  on  the  porch.  She 
set  him  carding  flax,  and  spinning,  and  making 
candle-wicks.  She  found  errands  also  for  him  to 
do,  and  many  commands  for  him  to  obey.  She 
sent  him  to  Abington  with  a  couple  of  feather 
pillows  for  her  aunt,  and  awkwardly  enough  he 
managed  them  on  horseback.  She  forbade  his 
going  to  Boston  on  a  little  trip  with  some  of  the 
village  young  men,  Freelove  being  of  the  party. 
Abel  Perkins  never  rebelled  against  her  rule,  but 
there  came  a  time  when  Lydia  herself  arose  for 
him. 

One  afternoon  he  sat  on  the  porch  spinning  at 
the  wheel,  and  Lydia  had  tied  one  of  her  blue 
aprons  around  his  waist,  when  she  suddenly 
spoke. 

"  Take  off  that  apron  now,  and  stop  spinning, 
and  go  home,  Abel  Perkins,"  said  she. 

Abel  jumped  up,  and  stared  at  her. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say/'  said  she.  "  If  you  are 
not  ashamed  for  yourself,  I  am  ashamed  for  you, 
and  I  am  ashamed  for  myself  more  than  I  am  for 
No  man  can  make  a  woman  like  hini  by 
374 


OF    EAST    BRIDGEWATER 

doing  everything  she  tells  him  to ;  she  only  de 
spises  him  for  it.  You  remember  it  next  time. 
Now  you  had  better  go  home  and  learn  your 
Latin  books." 

"  Can't  I  come  again.,  Lydia  ?"  said  Abel.  He 
was  quite  pale,  and  tears  stood  in  his  eyes. 

But  Lydia  would  not  speak  softly  to  him. 
"No,"  she  replied,  "you  can't.  You  mustn't 
come  here  wasting  your  time  any  more.  You 
must  study  your  books.  You  are  not  old  enough 
to  go  courting ;  get  your  college  books  learned 
through  first." 

"  Can  I  come  then,  Lydia  ?"  he  inquired, 
faintly. 

"  No,"  said  she  ;  "  I  shall  never  want  anybody 
coming  again.  Take  off  that  apron  and  go 
home." 

And  Abel  Perkins  obeyed.  He  looked  very 
dejected  and  youthful  going  out  of  the  yard. 
Lydia  went  into  the  house  and  cried. 

Abel  stayed  away  for  a  week ;  then  he  came 
again.  Lydia  would  not  have  gone  to  the  door 
had  she  known  who  it  was  plying  the  knocker. 
She  never  heard  the  knocker  but  with  a  hope  that 
it  might  be  Freelove,  although  he  never  came  now. 

When  she  saw  Abel  standing  there,  she  frowned. 

"  Don't  look  at  me  so,  Lydia,"  he  pleaded. 
"  I  couldn't  help  coming.  I  can't  eat,  and  I 
haven't  slept  any.  I'm  sick,  Lydia.  Mother 
keeps  asking  me  what  the  matter  is/' 


LYDIA    HERSEY 

Indeed  Abel  looked  ill ;  he  was  paler  than 
usual,  and  had  a  pinched  and  woe-begone  ex 
pression  that  drew  his  face  down,  and  made  it 
appear  thinner. 

"  Well,  you  come  in,"  said  Lydia.  "Fin  go 
ing  to  mix  you  up  some  medicine,  if  you're  sick. 
I  know  a  very  good  one  that  my  father  showed 
me  how  to  make.  It  '11  cure  you  right  up,  Abel." 

And  Lydia  made  Abel  seat  himself  on  the  set 
tle  in  the  keeping-room,  and  went  with  a  cup  and 
spoon  to  the  cupboard  in  the  fore  room,  where 
her  father's  old  gallipots  were  kept.  Then  she 
took  from  this  and  that,  and  mixed  carefully, 
and  returned  to  Abel. 

"  Here,  drink  this,"  said  she. 

Abel  held  out  his  hand,  but  turned  his  face 
away. 

"  'Tis  only  a  little  assafoetida  that  I  put  in  to 
quiet  the  nerves  that  you  smell,"  said  she.  ( '  'Tis 
mostly  for  the  liver.  My  father  used  to  say  that 
the  root  of  all  sickness  was  the  liver,  and  he  did 
not  know  but  it  was  the  root  of  all  evil.  If  your 
liver  were  in  good  order  you  would  not  fret,  Abel 
Perkins.  Drink  it  down." 

And  Abel  drank  it  down  with  an  effort. 

"Now  you'd  better  go  home,"  said  she,  "and 
wait  till  it  takes  effect.  I'll  warrant  you'll  eat 
some  supper  to-night." 

"  I  sha'n't,  Lydia,  if  you  don't  let  me  come  to 
see  you,"  said  Abel,  piteously. 
276 


OF    EAST    BRIDGEWATER 

"  Yes,  you  will.  How  long  did  you  go  with 
out  your  supper  when  that  girl  in  Abington  gave 
you  the  mitten  ?  I  ain't  the  first  one  you've 
stopped  eating  for,  Abel  Perkins,  and  you  not 
twenty  !  You  know  it's  so." 

Abel  blushed,  and  looked  down  foolishly. 

Lydia  laughed.  "If  you  keep  on  this  way, 
you'll  starve  to  death  before  you  come  of  age," 
said  she.  "  Now  you'd  better  go  home  and  study 
your  books,  and  leave  such  matters  alone  until 
you  get  more  sense  to  manage  them.  I  suppose 
you  will  when  you've  got  the  college  books 
learned  through." 

Abel  arose.  Lydia  followed  him  to  the  door, 
and  her  voice  was  softer  as  she  bade  him  good 
bye.  He  looked  piteously  backward  at  her  as  he 
went  out  of  the  yard,  but  still  she  was  not  so 
touched  as  she  had  been  before. 

"  That  story  about  his  being  so  crazy  over  that 
girl  in  Abington  was  true,"  she  said  to  herself ; 
and  although  she  was  generous  enough  to  feel  re 
lieved  that  her  unlucky  lover  had  an  elastic  as 
well  as  susceptible  temperament,  and  was  like 
ly  to  recover  from  his  wounds,  still  she  disliked 
him  the  more  for  it. 

It  now  wanted  only  a  month  for  the  expira 
tion  of  the  year  since  Lydia  and  Freelove's  banns 
had  been  published.  Should  they  not  marry  be 
fore  then,  they  could  not  legally,  unless  they 
were  again  published. 

277 


LYDIA    HEKSEY 

It  was  a  month  since  Freelove  had  set  foot  in 
Lydia's  house,  or  indeed  spoken  to  her.  He 
came,  early  in  the  morning  sometimes,  and  cared 
for  her  garden,  but  they  never  exchanged  a  word. 
Everybody  said  that  the  marriage  was  broken  off. 
Lydia  kept  on  as  usual.  She  had  some  beautiful 
linen  in  the  loom,  and  she  wove  as  if  she  were 
certainly  going  to  be  married.  Sarah  Porter  used 
to  come  in  and  wonder,  but  she  found  out  noth 
ing  from  Lydia,  who  never  spoke  Freelove's 
name. 

"  She's  making  more  linen,"  Sarah  told  her 
mother  when  she  got  home,  and  the  two  women 
speculated  anxiously.  They  knew  that  Freelove 
did  not  go  to  see  Lydia,  at  all  events,  for  they 
and  all  the  neighbors  watched. 

When  the  last  day  of  the  year  since  the  banns 
came,  there  was  no  longer  doubt  in  anybody's 
mind,  nor  was  there,  indeed,  in  Lydia's.  She 
stayed  in-doors,  and  wove  her  linen  in  a  mechani 
cal  fashion.  She  sat  before  the  great  loom,  and 
it  was  as  if  she  were  playing  a  harmony  of  sweet 
housewifely  industry  upon  it  like  a  very  artist, 
but  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  which  were 
not  rosy  that  morning. 

Had  she  not  listened  two  months  for  the  sound 
of  the  knocker,  she  would  not  have  heard  it 
above  the  great  hum  of  the  loom  that  afternoon  ; 
but  hear  it  she  did,  and  went  to  answer  it,  wiping 
her  eyes. 

278 


OF  EAST  BBIDGEWATEE 

Freelove  Keith  stood  in  the  porch,  and  out  a; 
the  gate  stood  his  horse,  with  a  pillion  behind  the 
saddle. 

fe  Come,  Lydia,"  said  Freelove,  "  I  want  you 
to  get  on  the  pillion,  and  ride  over  to  Aunt  Nab- 
by's  with  me." 

"  I  can't/'  said  Lydia,  faintly.  "Fm  all  over 
flax  lint  from  the  loom." 

"  Put  on  an  apron,"  said  Freelove. 

Lydia  went  into  the  house,  and  tied  an  apron 
around  her  waist,  and  came  out  again.  Freelove 
lifted  her  on  the  pillion,  and  they  rode  down  the 
street  without  a  word,  until  they  reached  the 
minister  Elihu  Eaton's  house,  which  was  about 
half  way  to  Aunt  Nabby's. 

Freelove  drew  rein.  "  Now  we'll  go  in  and  get 
married,  Lydia,"  said  he. 

"  Oh,  Freelove,  /  can't  !"  gasped  Lydia. 

"  Now  or  never,"  said  Freelove,  sternly. 

"  I  was  going  to  have  a  wedding,  Freelove,  and 
a  brocade  gown,  and  cake — 

"  Now  or  never,"  said  Freelove. 

He  sprang  off  the  saddle  and  held  up  his  arms. 
Lydia  slipped  down  into  them,  and  followed  him, 
trembling,  her  head  drooping,  into  the  minister's 
house. 

When  they  came  out,  a  stout  old  woman  stood 
waiting  for  them  at  the  gate. 

"Fve  got  married,  Aunt  Nabby,"  said  Free- 
love,  with  a  gay  laugh. 

279 


LYDIA    HEBSEY 

"  Well,  I  should  think  'twas  time,"  replied  the 
old  woman.  She  chuckled  ;  her  iron-bowed  spec 
tacles  flashed  back  the  light.  "I've  got  a  bed- 
quilt  made  for  Liddy,  and  six  yarn  socks  for 
you,  Freelove,"  she  said  ;  "and  Fm  going  home 
and  bake  a  pound-cake  with  some  plums  in  it." 

Aunt  Nabby  went  scuttling  down  the  road. 
Freelove  and  Lydia  remounted,  and  went  back 
at  a  canter.  Freelove  pulled  a  conch  shell  from 
his  pocket,  and  blew  as  lustily  as  a  herald.  Folks 
ran  to  the  windows,  and  Lydia  hid  her  blushing 
face  against  her  husband's  shoulder. 


THE  END 


14  DAY  USE 

-URN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below  or 
Ron         "J111*  d«e  to  which  renewed  ' 

iewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall 


WIWMAY    4 


L!>  21A-60m.3,'65 
(P2336alO)476B 


.  General  Librarr 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


